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CHOOSING THE WEDDING GOWN. 
\ After Mulready.] 



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THE 



Vicar of Wakefield 

A TALE 

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY HIMSELF 

By OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

Sperate viiseri, cavete felices 







\\ n, -. o' 



NEW YORK 

PUBLISHED BY HURD AND HOUGHTON 

Catttiirttiffe: Cbe Ettemtie Press 

1876 



71? 5^^^ 



COPYEIGHT, 1876, 

By HTRD and HOUGHTON. 



RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 

STEROTYPED AND PRINTED BY 

H, 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



There are a hundred faults in this thing, and a 
hundred things anight he said to prove them beauties. 
But it is needless. A hook may he amusing with nu- 
merous errors, or it may he dull without a single ab- 
surdity. The hero of this piece unites in himself the 
three greatest characters upon earth : he is a priest, a 
husbandman, and the father of a family. He is 
drawn as ready to teach, and ready to obey ; as simple 
in affluence, and majestic in adversity. In this age 
of opulence and refinement, whom can such a charac- 
ter please ? Such as are fond of high life, will turn 
with disdain from the simplicity of his country fire- 
side. Such as mistake ribaldry for humor, loill find 
no wit in his harmless conversation ; and such as 
have been taught to deride religion, will laugh at one 
whose chief stores of comfort are drawn from futurity. 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



I 



I 

I 




OOISTTEE'TS. 



INTRODUCTION. page 

Oliver Goldsmith and the Vicar of Wakefield vii 

CHAPTER I. 

The Description of the Family of Wakefield, in which a Kin- 
dred Likeness prevails, as well of Minds as of Persons . . 1 

CHAPTER II. 

Family Misfortunes. — The Loss of Fortune only serves to in- 
crease the Pride of the Worthy 7 

CHAPTER III. 

A Migration. — The Fortunate Circumstances of our Lives are 
generally found at last to be of our own procuring ... 13 

CHAPTER IV. 

A Proof that even the Humblest Fortune may grant Happi- 
ness, which depends not on Circumstances, but Constitution, 23 

CHAPTER V. 

A New and Great Acquaintance introduced. — What we place 
most Hopes upon generally proves most fatal 28 

CHAPTER VL 
The Happiness of a Country Fireside 34 



IV CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER Yll. PAGE 

A Town Wit described. — The Dullest Fellows may learn to 
be comical for a Night or two , . 39 

CHAPTER Vin. 

An Amour, which promises little Good Fortune, yet may be 
productive of much 45 

CHAPTER IX. 

Two Ladies of Great Distinction introduced. — Superior Finery 
ever seems to confer Superior Breeding 55 

CHAPTER X. 

The Family endeavors to cope with their Betters. —The Mis- 
eries of the Poor when they attempt to appear above their 
Circumstances 60 

CHAPTER XL 

The Family still resolve to hold up their Heads 66 



CHAPTER Xn. 

Fortune seems resolved to humble the Family of Wakefield. 
— Mortifications are often more painful than Real Calamities, 73 

CHAPTER XHL 

Mr. Burchell is found to be an Enemy; for he has the Confi- 
dence to give Disagreeable Advice 80 

CHAPTER XIV. 

Fresh Mortifications, or a Demonstration that Seeming Calam- 
ities may be Real Blessings 85 

CHAPTER XV. 

All BIr. Burchell's Villainy at once detected. — The Folly of 
being over-wise 93 



CONTENTS. V 

CHAPTER XVI. PAGE 

The Family use Art, which is opposed with still greater . . 100 

CHAPTER XVII. 

Scarcely any Virtue found to resist the Power of Long and 
Pleasing Temptation 108 

CHAPTER XVni. 

The Pursuit of a Father to reclaim a Lost Child to Virtue . . 119 

CHAPTER XIX. 

The Description of a Person discontented with the Present 
Government, and apprehensive of the Loss of our Liberties, 125 

CHAPTER XX. 

The History of a Philosophic Vagabond, pursuing Novelty, 
but losing Content 136 

CHAPTER XXI. 

The Short Continuance of Friendship among the Vicious, 
which is coeval only with Mutual Satisfaction 156 

CHAPTER XXII. 

Offences are easily pardoned where there is Love at Bottom, 167 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

None but the Guiltj'- can be long and completely miserable . 173 

CHAPTER XXIV. 
Fresh Calamities 179 

CHAPTER XXV. 

No Situation, however wretched it seems, but has some Sort 
of Comfort attending it 186 



VI CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER XXVI. page 

A Reformation in the Jail. — To make Laws complete, they 
should reward as well as punish 192 

CHAPTER XXVir. 
The same Subject continued 199 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Happiness and Misery i-ather the Result of Prudence than of 
Virtue in this Life ; Temporal Evils or Felicities being re- 
garded by Heaven as Things merely in themselves trifling 
and unworthy its Care in the Distribution 205 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

The Equal Dealings of Providence demonstrated with regard 
to the Happy and the Miserable here below. — That from 
the Nature of Pleasure and Pain, the Wretched must be re- 
paid the Balance of their Sufferings in the Life hereafter . 219 

CHAPTER XXX. 

Happier Prospects begin to appear. — Let us be inflexible, and 
Fortune will at last change in our favor 225 

CHAPTER XXXI. 
Former Benevolence now repaid with Unexpected Interest . 236 

CHAPTER XXXII. 
The Conclusion 256 




OLIVER GOLDSMITH AND THE 
VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



To sit down to a classic, even in one's own lan- 
guage, means for most people to undertake a task. 
There is a certain ordering of the mind which seems 
requisite, as when one dresses to pay a visit to an 
eminent and instructive person. There are few who 
can pass easily from their common thoughts into the 
presence of one of the masters of literature, and so 
acquainted are we with this attitude of mind toward 
the classics, that we are led to make a test of the 
genuineness of a great work, that we should not ap- 
proach it too familiarly. It is of ordinary readers 
that I speak ; the mind trained upon a severe regi- 
men of the best literature moves easily amongst great 
men. But these distinctions surely disappear when 
one takes up the Vicar of Wakefield. This book, 
answering all the definitions of a classic, has in it a 
personal charm, a certain exquisite undress of manner 
which invites readers without requiring of them a 



VIU OLIVER GOLDSMITH AND THE 

formal approach, and surprises the most modern-fed 
mind by its perennial freshness. Perhaps it is the 
property of genuine humor to be always human, and 
certainly Goldsmith in the Vicar of Wakefield pleases 
us not by an archaic quaintness, but • by a certain 
simplicity of nature, a sympathy with ever-recurring 
modes of thought, so that it is easy to believe that his 
manner will be scarcely more remote from the famil- 
iar manner of writers and readers a hundred years 
hence than it is now. lYe are accustomed to think 
of the period in which he wrote as one of formality, 
and the literature as dealing in sounding phrases and 
measured tones. The Club and the Coffee House 
are its foci, and the leaders of literature, even when 
driven contemptuously from their proper social posi- 
tion, seem to carry themselves at a certain elevation 
above ordinary affairs ; dress marks the gentleman, 
and the common features of humanity seem carefully 
covered even by those who, as men of letters, are the 
priests of humanity. The popular feeling regarding 
the period is measurably just, and it is because the 
wayward Goldsmith was perpetually at odds with the 
company in which he lived, while perpetually eager 
to bring himself under the same social laws, that he 
is easily singled from the rest and his impressible 
nature seen to have a finer sympathy with the ever- 
varying, ever-constant flux of human life. In Gold- 
smith's career may be read some of the indications of 
his peculiar place in literature. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. IX 

Oliver Goldsmith, the son of a humble village 
preacher was born at the parsonage in Pallas, the 
property of the Edge worths of Edgeworthstown in 
the county of Longford, Ireland, November 10, 1728. 
He died in London, wept over by Johnson, Burke, 
Reynolds and Garrick, April 4, 1774, five months 
over his forty-fifth year. Between the obscure Irish 
village birtli-place and the monument in Westminster 
Abbey stretched a career which was half in clouds 
and half in sunshine, a rainbow of tears and smiles. 
He had no advantages of birth other than the price- 
less one of a simple-hearted father, " passing rich with 
forty pounds a year," who lives again in tlie preacher 
of the " Deserted Village " and more minutely in the 
hero of the " Vicar of Wakefield." His life to out- 
ward seeming was a series of blunders. He was tossed 
about from one school to another, learning many 
things which somehow seem more in his life than 
Latin or Greek. He learned to play the flute, and he 
fell in love with vagrancy, or rather the vagrant in him 
was carefully nourished by an unworldly, unsophisti- 
cated father, a merry-andrew of a teacher, and by 
fickle Fortune herself. An uncle, the Rev. Mr. Con- 
tarine, was the prudent man of the family, always ap- 
pearing as the necessary counterpoise to prevent Oliver 
from flying off into irrecoverable wandering. By his 
advice and help the lad passed from his schools to 
Trinity College, Dublin, perhaps a needful discipline, 
but certainly a harsh one, for there where one might 



X OLIVER GOLDSMITH AND THE 

look for genial surroundings to one afterward to be- 
come a master in literature, the luckless youth was to 
find new trials to his sensitive spirit and to have his 
compensation in pleasures quite unprovided in the col- 
lege scheme. His poverty compelled him to take a 
menial position, he had a brutal tutor, and after he 
had been a year and a half at college his father died, 
leaving him in still more abject poverty than before. 
He wrote street ballads to save himself from actual 
starvation, and sold them for five shillings apiece. In 
all this murky gloom the lights that twinkle are 
the secret joy with which the poor poet would steal 
out at night to hear his ballads sung, and the quick 
rush of feeling in which he would use his five shillings 
upon some forlorn beggar, whose misery made him 
forget his own. Once he ran away from college, 
stung by some sharper insult from his tutor, but he 
returned to take his degree, and at the end of three 
years, carrying away some scraps of learning, he re- 
turned to his mother's house. 

There for two years he led an aimless, happy life, 
waiting for the necessary age at which he could 
qualify for orders in the church. He had few wants, 
and gayly shared the little family's small stock of pro- 
vision and joint labors, teaching in the village school, 
fishing, strolling, flute-playing and dancing. They 
were two years that made his Irish home always 
green in his memory, a spot almost dazzling for 
brightness when he looked back on it from the hard- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. XI 

ships of his London life. When the two years were 
passed he applied to the Bishop for orders, but was 
rejected for various reasons according to various au- 
thorities, but the most sufficient one in any case was 
his own unwillingness to take the step urged upon 
him by friends. He was sent by his uncle to begin 
the study of law, but the fifty pounds with which he 
was furnished were lost at play, and the vagabond re- 
turned forgiven to his uncle's house. He had visions 
of coming to America which fortunately never passed 
into waking resolution, for I fear there would have 
been small likelihood of his blossoming into literature 
on this side of the water in the days of ante-revolu- 
tionary flatness. 

Medicine was the next resort, and Goldsmith was 
sent by his uncle to Edinburgh. Although the title 
of doctor has become familiarly connected with his 
name, it is very certain that he did not acquire the 
degree in Edinburgh, but afterward in a foreign 
university upon one of his wanderings. Few tradi- 
tions remain of his life at Edinburgh ; three or four 
amusing letters were written thence, but the impres- 
sion made by them and by such gossip as survives is 
that he was an inimitable teller of humorous stories 
and a capital singer of Irish songs. His profession 
of medicine, however, gave a show of consistency to 
his purpose of travel on the continent where he per- 
suaded himself and his friends that he should qualify 
himself for his professional degree. In point of fact 



Xll OLIVER GOLDSMITH AND THE 

he spent his time in a happy-go-hickj fashion, wan- 
dering from place to place, and singing a so.ng for a 
sixpence. The philosophic vagabond in the " Vicar of 
Wakefield " is but a transparent mask for Goldsmith's 
own features at this time. " I had some knowledge 
of music," says that entertaining philosopher, " with a 
tolerable voice ; I now turned what was once my 
amusement into a present means of subsistence. I 
passed among the harmless peasants of Flanders, and 
among such of the French as were poor enough to be 
very merry ; for I ever found them sprightly in pro- 
portion to their wants. Whenever I approached a 
peasant's house towards nightfall, I played one of iny 
most merry tunes, and that procured me not only a 
lodging, but subsistence for the next day. I once or 
twice attempted to play for people of fashion, but they 
always thought my performance odious, and never re- 
warded me even with a trifle." Although Goldsmith's 
medical knowledge was scarcely increased by his con- 
tinental experience, he was wittingly or unwittingly 
adding daily to that knowledge of men and nature . 
which shines through his lightest writings. " The 
Traveller " is a distillation of these wanderings. 

He returned to England in 1756 after two years of 
desultory life on the continent, and landed we are 
told without a farthing in his pockets. He lived by 
hook and by crook, serving in an apothecary's shop 
in a humble capacity, acting as tutor it is said under 
a feigned name, and living the while as he afterward 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. XIU 

declared, among beggars. Then, falling in with an 
old friend, and getting some little assistance, for 
Goldsmith seemed always one of the open-handed^ 
ready to receive and ready to bestow, he became a 
physician in a humble way, struggling for a living in 
doctoring those only one degree richer than himself'. 
By a curious coincidence, one of his patients was a 
printer working under Samuel Richardson, printer, 
and what is more, author of " Clarissa." From a 
hint given by this man, Goldsmith applied to Rich- 
ardson and was given occupation as a proof-reader. 
Then, falling in with an old school-fellow whose father 
kept a school in Peckham, Goldsmith became an 
usher and a miserable time he had of it. " Aye," cries 
George Primrose's cousin to him, " this is indeed a 
very pretty career that has been checked out for you. 
I have been an usher at a boarding-school myself, 
and may I die by an anodyne necklace, but I had 
rather be an under-turnkey in Newgate. I was up 
early and late ; I was brow-beat by the master, hated 
for my ugly face by the mistress, worried by the 
boys within, and never permitted to stir out to meet 
civility abroad. But are you sure you are fit for a 
school ? Let me examine you a little. Have you 
been bred apprentice to the business ? No. Then 
you won't do for a school. Can you dress the boys' 
hair ? No. Then you won't do for a school. Have 
you had the small-pox ? No. Then you won't do 
for a school. Can you lie three in a bed? No. 



XIV OLIVER GOLDSMITH AND THE 

Then you will never do for a school. Have you got 
a good stomach ? Yes. Then you will by no means 
do for a school. No, sir, if you are for a genteel, easy 
profession, bind yourself seven years as an apprentice 
to turn a cutler's wheel, but avoid a school by any 
means." In the same conversation the city cousin 
advises George to take u]d authorship for a trade, and 
it was indeed by the humblest entrance that Gold- 
smith passed into the domain where afterward he 
was to be recognized as master. Griffiths, the book- 
seller, dined one day at the school where Goldsmith 
was usher. The conversation turned upon the 
"Monthly Eeview," owned and conducted by Grif- 
fifths. Something said by Goldsmith led to further 
consideration, and the usher left the school to board 
and lodge with the bookseller, to have a small regular 
salary, and to devote himself to the " Monthly Re- 
view." 

The history of literature at this time in England 
gives much space necessarily to the bookseller. In 
the transition period of authorship, this middleman oc- 
cupied a position of power and authority not since ac- 
corded to him ; it was a singular relation which the 
drudging author held to his employer, and Goldsmith 
from this time forward was scarcely ever free from a 
dependence upon the autocrats of the book trade. 
He entered the profession of literature as upon some- 
thing which was a little more profitable and certainly 
more agreeable than the occupation of an usher in a 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. XV 

boarding-scliool, or the profession of a doctor without 
paying clients. A profession wliich now dignifies its 
members, was then without respect, socially, and at- 
tended by all the meanness which springs from a false 
position. The rich and powerful in government 
looked upon it as appointed only to serve the ends of 
the ambitious, and the poor author had to struggle to 
maintain his independence of nature. The men who 
could sell their talents and their self-respect for gold 
and place jostled roughly their nobler comrades who 
served literature faithfully in poverty, and it was 
only now and then that the fickle breath of popular 
favor wafted some author's book into warmer waters. 
So crowding was this Grub Street life that Goldsmith 
sought release from it in a vain attempt after a gov- 
ernment appointment as medical ofiicer at Coroman- 
del. He was driven back into the galleys from which 
he was striving to escape, yet out of this life there 
began to issue the true products of his genius. He 
brooded over his own and his fellows' condition. 
Something within him made protest against the 
ignoble state of literature, and he wrote the first 
book which gave him a name, — " An Enquiry into 
the Present State of Polite Learning in Europe." 
The subject was wrung from his fortunes, but the 
style was the music which he had never failed 
to hear from boyhood. Style, bred of no special 
study at Trinity College, nor too closely allied with 
learning, but a gift of nature, guarded well and cher- 



XVI OLIVER GOLDSMITH AND THE 

ished by the varying fortune, which was moulding his 
mind in the secret fashion that makes a genuine 
surface when discovered : this was seen in his book, 
and justified his place in the great profession of 
authorship. There is in Goldsmith's life, as in An- 
dersen's, and in that of many a man of genius, the sad, 
sweet story of the Ugly Duckling. Pecked at, and 
scorned by meaner associates, conscious of disadvan- 
tages and of inferiority in inferior things, a divine 
ray of hope and longing never left him, and when at 
length he gave outward expression to the genius in 
him, he found himself amongst his true fellows, rec- 
ognized by men of genius as their associate. From 
this time forward Goldsmith knew his place and 
took it. He was thirty-one years of age, and in the 
remainder of his life he wrote his essays in " The 
Bee," " The Citizen of the World," " The Vicar of 
Wakefield," "The Traveller," "The Deserted Vil- 
lage," his poems, and the two comedies, " A Good-na- 
tured Man," and, " She stoops to conquer." In quan- 
tity, not a large showing, but glistening with that 
pure fancy and happy temper which are among the 
choicest gifts of literature to a tired world. These 
are his works which give him his place in literature, 
but during the time when they were composed, he 
was constantly at work upon tasks. He wrote his 
histories of England and Rome and his " Animated 
Nature," which despite its unscientific cast, is a store- 
house of delightful reading, and he wrote reviews, 



VICAR 0F WAKEFIELB. xvil 

essays, prefaces, translations and the like quite be- 
3^ond record. 

Yet all this time he was in debt. He did not want 
because his work was ill paid or he was not indus- 
trious, but because his money slipped through his 
fingers, too volatile to hold it fast. Some of it went 
upon his back in the odd finery which has stuck to 
his reputation, but a large share went to the poor and 
miserable. Look at the poor man lying dead in his 
solitary chamber. " The staircase of Birch Court is 
said to have been filled with mourners, the reverse of 
domestic ; women without a home, without domestic- 
ity of any kind, with no friend but him they had 
come to weep for, outcasts of that great, solitary, 
wicked city, to whom he had never forgotten to be 
kind and charitable." ^ 

There were two sets of people who looked upon 
Oliver Goldsmith the poet, and each saw correctly 
enough what each was capable of seeing. One saw 
in him a shiftless, vain, awkward, homely fellow, 
thrusting himself into good company, blundering, 
blurting out nonsense or mal a propos sayings, a 
gooseberry fool. The other, containing men of 
genius, laughed at "poor Goldy," but never failed to 
seek his company and to receive him as their equal. 
When Burke was told of his death, he burst into 
tears. Reynolds was painting when the news was 
1 Forster's The Life and Times of Oliver Goldsmith. II. 467. 



XVlll OLIVER GOLDSMITH AND THE 

brought to him ; he laid his pencil aside and would 
not go back that day to his studio, a sign of grief 
never shown in times of deep family distress. John- 
son never ceased to mourn him, and cast his pro- 
foundest conviction of the poet's genius into the mon- 
umental lines which form one of the noblest of 
elegies. 

OLIVARII GOLDSMITH 

Poetae, Physici, Historic!, 
qui nullum fere scribendi genus 

non tetigit, 

nullum quod tetigit non ornavit : 

sive risus essent movendi 

sive lacrymae, 

affectuum potens, at lenis dominator ; 

ingenio sublimis, vividus, versatilis ; 

oratione grandis, nitidus, venustus: 

hoc monumento memoriam coluit 

Sodalium amor, 

Amicorum fides, 

Lectorum veneratio. 

Natus Hibemia, Forneite Lonfordiensis 

in loco cui nomen Pallas 

Nov. XXix. MDCCXXXI. 

Eblanae literis institutus 

Objit Londini 

Apr. iv. MDCCLXxiv. 

Englished thus by Mr. Forster. 

OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

Poet, Naturalist, Historian, 

who left scarcely any kind of writing 

untouched, 

and touched nothing that he did not adorn : 

whether smiles were to be stirred 

or tears, 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. XIX 

commanding our emotions, yet a gentle master : 
In genius lofty, lively, versatile, 
in style weighty, clear, engaging — 
The memory in this monument is cherished 
by the love of Companions, 
the faithfulness of Friends, 
the reverence of Readers. 
He was born in Ireland, 
at a place called Pallas, 
(in the parish) of Forney, (and county) of Longford, 
on the 29th Nov. 1731. 
Trained in letters at Dublin, 
Died in London, 
4th April, 1774. 

" To be the most beloved of English writers," says 
Thackeray, " what a title that is for a man ! a wild 
youth, wayward, but full of tenderness and affection, 
quits the country village where his boyhood has been 
passed in happy musing, in idle shelter, in fond long- 
ing, to see the great world out of doors, and achieve 
name and fortune ; and after years of dire struggle, 
and neglect and poverty, his heart turning back as 
fondly to his native place as it had longed eagerly for 
change when sheltered there, he writes a book and a 
poem full of the recollections and feelings of home ; 
he paints the friends and scenes of his youth, and 
peoples Auburn and Wakefield with remembrances of 
Lissoy. Wander he must, but he carries away a 
home relic with him, and dies with it on his breast. 
His nature is truant ; in repose it longs for change : 
as on the journey it looks back for friends and quiet. 
He passes to-day in building an air-castle for to- 



XX OLIVER GOLDSMITH AND THE 

morrow, or in writing yesterday's elegy ; and he would 
fly away this hour, but that a cage and necessity keep 
him. What is the charm of his verse, of his style and 
humor ? His sweet regrets, his delicate compassion, 
his soft smile, his tremulous sympathy, the weakness 
which he owns ? Your love for him is half pity. You 
come hot and tired from the day's battle, and this 
sweet minstrel sings to you. Who could harm the 
kind, vagrant harper ? Whom did he ever hurt ? He 
carries no weapon, save the harp on which he plays 
to you ; and with which he delights great and humble, 
young and old, the captain in the tent, or the sol- 
diers round the fire, or the women and children in 
the villages, at whose porches he stops and sings his 
simple songs of love and beauty. With that sweet 
story of the * Vicar of Wakefield ' he has found 
entry into every castle and every hamlet in Europe. 
Not one of us, however busy or hard, but once or 
twice in our lives has passed an evening with him, 
and undergone the charm of his delightful music." ^ 

The unbroken succession of delight in this story is 
illustrated by the pictures which it has given rise to. 
Wilkie, Newton, Stothard, Leslie, Maclise and Mul- 
ready have all turned to its pages for subjects. Moses 
fitted out for the Fair, Choosing the Wedding Gown, 
The Whistonian Controversy, Haymaking, Fudge ! 
these and others have glanced back and forth from 
Goldsmith's pages and the painter's canvas. But 
1 The English Humorists, — Sterne and Goldsmith. 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. XXI 

every reader of the story carries in liis memory some 
scene made vivid by those inexplicable touches of 
genius which seem in Goldsmith's work to be like 
the dew on the grass, giving a heavenly radiance to 
common things, yet disappearing as soon as one en- 
deavors to catch and hold the momentary moisture. 
After all, the best that one can do, when inviting 
readers again to this ever delightful feast, is to set 
the book before them in such dainty style as the 
printer's art may afford — the best will not be too 
good — and leave each to taste the pleasant fruit. 
Here then is the book, yet I for one, would fain look 
over the shoulder of the reader, re-read it myself, and * 
enjoy the ripple of pleasure which will assuredly 
move the surface of every reader's countenance. 

H. E. S. 





THE YICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 



CHAPTER I. 

THE DESCRIPTION OF THE FAMILY OF WAKEFIELD, 
IN WHICH A KINDRED LIKENESS PREVAILS, AS 
WELL OF MINDS AS OF PERSONS. 

I WAS ever of opinion, that the honest man who 
married and brought up a large family, did more ser- 
vice than he who continued single and only talked 
of population. From this motive, I had scarcely 
taken orders a year, before I began to think seriously 
of matrimony, and chose my wife as she did her 
wedding-gown, not for a fine glossy surface, but for 
such qualities as would wear well. To do her jus- 
tice, she was a good-natured notable woman ; and as 
for breeding, there were few country ladies who could 
show more. She could read any English book with- 
out much spelling ; but for pickling, preserving, and 
cookery, none could excel her. She prided herself 
also upon being an excellent contriver in housekeep- 
ing ; though I could never find that we grew richer 
with all her contrivances. 
1 



2 VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 

However, we loved each other tenderly, and our 
fondness increased as we grew old. There was, in 
fact, nothing that could make us angry with the 
world or each other. We had an elegant house sit- 
uated in a fine country, and a good neighborhood. 
The year was spent in moral or rural amusements, 
in visiting our rich neighbors, and relieving such as 
were poor. We had no revolutions to fear, nor fa- 
tigues to undergo ; all our adventures were by the 
the ii re-side, and all our migrations from the blue bed 
to the brown. 

As we lived near the road, we often had the trav- 
eler or stranger visit us to taste our gooseberry-wine, 
for which we had great reputation ; and I profess 
with the veracity of an historian, that I never knew 
one of them find fault with it. Our cousins too, even 
to the fortieth remove, all remembered their afhuity, 
without any help from the herald's office, and came 
very frequently to see us. Some of them did us no 
great honor by these claims of kindred ; as we had 
the blind, the maimed, and the halt amongst the 
number. However, my wife always insisted that as 
they were the same flesh and blood, they should sit 
with us at the same table. So that if we had not 
very rich, we generally had very happy friends about 
us ; for this remark will hold good through life, that 
the poorer the guest, the better pleased he ever is 
with being treated : and as some men gaze with ad- 
miration at the colors of a tulip, or the wings of a 
butterfly, so I was by nature an admirer of happy 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 3 

human faces. However, when any one of our rela- 
tions was found to be a person of very bad character, 
a troublesome guest, or one we desired to get rid of, 
upon his leaving my house, I ever took care to lend 
him a riding-coat, or a pair of boots, or sometimes a 
horse of small value, and I always had the satisfac- 
tion of finding he never came back to 1-eturn them. 
By this the house was cleared of such as we did not 
like ; but never was the family of Wakefield known 
to turn the traveler or the poor dependent out of 
doors. 

Thus we lived several years in a state of much 
happiness, not but that we sometimes had those little 
rubs which Providence sends to enhance the value 
of its favors. My orchard was often robbed by 
schoolboys, and my wife's custards plundered by the 
cats or the children. The Squire would sometimes 
fall asleep in the most pathetic parts of my sermon, 
or his lady return my wife's civilities at church with 
a mutilated courtesy. But we soon got over the un- 
easiness caused by such accidents, and usually in 
three or four days began to wonder how they vexed 
us. 

My children the offspring of temperance, as they 
were educated without softness, so they were at once 
well formed and healthy; my sons hardy and active, 
my daughters beautiful and blooming. When I 
stood in the midst of the little circle, which promised 
to be the support of my declining. age, I could not 
avoid repeating the famous story of Count Abens- 



4 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

berg, who, in Henry II.'s progress through Germany, 
while other courtiers came with their treasures, 
brought his thirty-two children, and j^resented them 
to his sovereign as the most valuable offering he had 
to bestow. In this manner, though I had but six, I 
considered them as a very valuable present made to 
my country, and consequently looked upon it as 
my debtor. Oar eldest son was named George, after 
his uncle, who left us ten thousand pounds. Our 
second child, a girl, I intended to call after her Aunt 
Grissel ; but my wife, who during her pregnancy 
had been reading romances, insisted upon her be- 
ing called Olivia. In less than another year we 
had another daughter, and now I was determined 
that Grissel should be her name ; but a rich rela- 
tion taking a fancy to stand godmother, the girl was 
by her directions, called Sophia ; so that we had 
two romantic names in the family ; but I solemnly 
protest I had no hand in it. Moses was our next, 
and after an interval of twelve years, we had two 
SODS more. 

It would be fruitless to deny my exultation when I 
saw my little ones about me ; but the vanity and the 
satisfaction of my wife were even greater than mine. 
When our visitors would say, " Well, upon my word, 
Mrs. Primrose, you have the finest children in the 
whole country : " " Ay, neighbor," she would an- 
swer, " they are as heaven made them, handsome 
enough, if they be good enough ; for handsome is 
that handsome does." And then she would bid the 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 5 

girls hold up their heads ; who, to conceal nothing, 
were certainly very handsome. Mere outside is so 
very trifling a circumstance with me, that I should 
scarcely have remembered to mention it, had it not 
been a general topic of conversation in the country. 
Olivia, now about eighteen, had that luxuriancy of 
beauty with which painters generally draw Hebe ; 
open, sprightly, and commanding. Sophia's features 
were not so striking at first, but often did more cer- 
tain execution ; for they were soft, modest, and allur- 
ing. The one vanquished by a single blow, the other 
by efforts successively repeated. 

The temper of a woman is generally formed from 
the turn of her features, at least it was so with my 
daughters. Olivia wished for many lovers, Sophia to 
secure one. Olivia was often affected from too great 
a desire to please. Sophia even repressed excellence, 
from her fears to offend. The one entertained me 
with her vivacity when I was gay, the other with her 
sense when I was serious. But these qualities were 
never carried to excess in either, and I have often 
seen them exchange characters for a whole day to- 
gether. A suit of mourning has transformed my 
coquette into a prude, and a new set of ribbons has 
given her younger sister more than natural vivacity. 
My eldest son George was bred at Oxford, as I in- 
tended him for one of the learned professions. My 
second boy Moses, whom I designed for business, re- 
ceived a sort of miscellaneous education at home. 
But it is needless to attempt describing the particular 



6 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



characters of young people that had seen but very 
little of the world. In short a family likeness pre- 
vailed through all, and properly speaking, they had 
but one character, that of being all equally generous, 
credulous, simple, and inoffensive. 





CHAPTER 11. 

FAMILY MISFORTUNES. THE LOSS OF FORTUNE 

ONLY SERVES TO INCREASE THE PRIDE OF THE 
WORTHY. 

The temporal concerns of our family were chiefly 
committed to my wife's management ; as to the spir- 
itual, I took them entirely under my own direction. 
The profits of my living, which amounted to but 
thirty-five pounds a year, I made over to the orphans 
and widows of the clergy of our diocese ; for having 
sufficient fortune of my own, I was careless of tem- 
poralities, and felt a secret pleasure in doing my duty 
without reward. I also set a resolution of keeping 
no curate, and of being acquainted with every man 
in the parish, exhorting the married men to temper- 
ance, and the bachelors to matrimony ; so that in a 
few years it was a common saying, that there were 
three strange wants at Wakefield, a parson wanting 
pride, young men wanting wives, and ale-houses 
wanting customers. 

Matrimony was always one of my favorite topics, 
and I wrote several sermons to prove its happiness : 
but there was a peculiar tenet which I made a point 
of supporting ; for I maintained with Whiston, that 



8 VICAR OF WAKEHELD. 

it was unlawful for a priest of the church of England, 
after the death of his first wife, to take a second ; or, 
to express it in one word, I valued myself upon being 
a strict monogamist. 

I was early initiated into this important dispute, 
on which so many laborious volumes have been writ- 
ten. I published some tracts upon the subject my- 
self, which, as they never sold, I have the consolation 
of thinking are read only by the happ j few. Some 
of my friends called this my weak side ; but, alas ! 
they had not, like me, made it the subject of long 
contemplation. The more I reflected upon it, the 
more important it appeared. I even went a step be- 
yond Whiston in displaying my principles : ^s he 
had engraven upon his wife's tomb that she was the 
only wife of William Whiston ; so I wrote a similar 
epitaph for my wife, though still living, in which I 
extolled her prudence, economy, and obedience till 
death ; and having got it copied fair, with an elegant 
frame, it was placed over the chimney-piece, where it 
answered several very useful purposes. It admon- 
ished my wife of her duty to me, and my fidelity to 
her ; it inspired her with a passion for fame, and con- 
stantly put her in mind of her end. 

It was thus, perhaps, from hearing marriage so 
often recommended, that my eldest son, just upon 
leaving college, fixed his affections upon the daughter 
of a neighboring clergyman, who was a dignitary in 
the church, and in circumstances to give her a large 
fortune. But fortune was her smallest accomplish- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 9 

ment. Miss Arabella Wilmot was allowed by all 
(except my two daughters) to be completely pretty. 
Her youth, health, and innocence, were still height- 
ened by a complexion so transparent, and such a 
happy sensibility of look, as even age could not gaze 
on with indifference. As Mr. Wilmot knew that I 
could make a very handsome settlement on my son, 
he was not averse to the match : so both families 
lived together in all that harmony which generally 
precedes an expected alliance. Being convinced by 
experience that the days of courtship are the most 
happy of our lives, I was willing enough to lengthen 
the period ; and the various amusements which the 
young coujDle every day shared in each other's com- 
pany, seemed to increase their passion. We were 
generally awakened in the morning by music, and on 
fine days rode a-hunting. The hours between break- 
fast and dinner the ladies devoted to dress and study ; 
they usually read a page, and gazed at themselves in 
the glass, which even philosophers might own often 
presented the page of greatest beauty. At dinner 
my wife took the lead ; for as she always insisted 
upon carving everything herself, it being her moth- 
er's way, she gave us upon these occasions the history 
of every dish. When we had dined, to prevent the 
ladies leaving us, I generally ordered the table to be 
removed ; and sometimes, with the music-master's 
assistance, the girls would give us a very agreeable 
concert. Walking out, drinking tea, country dances, 
and forfeits, shortened the rest of the day, without 



10 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

the assistance of cards, as I hated all manner of gam- 
ing, except backgammon, at which my old friend and 
I sometimes took a two-penny hit. Nor can I here 
pass over an ominous circumstance that happened the 
last time we played together ; I only wanted to fling 
a quatre, and yet I threw deuce ace five times run- 
ning. 

Some months were elapsed in this manner, till at 
last it was thought convenient to fix a day for the 
nuptials of the young couple, who seemed earnestly 
to desire it. During the preparations for the wed- 
ding, I need not describe the busy importance of my 
wife, nor the sly looks of my daughters ; in fact, my 
attention was fixed on another object, the completing 
a tract which I intended shortly to publish in defense 
of my favorite principle. As I looked upon this as 
a masterpiece, both for argument and style, I could 
not in the pride of my heart avoid showing it to my 
old friend Mr. Wilmot, as I made no doubt of receiv- 
ing his approbation ; but not till too late I discovered 
that he was most violently attached to the contrary 
opinion, and with good reason ; for he was at that 
time actually courting a fourth wife. : This, as may 
be expected, produced a dispute attended with some 
acrimony, which threatened to interrupt our intended 
alliance : but on the day before that appointed for 
the ceremony, we agreed to discuss the subject at 
large. 

It was managed with proper spirit on both sides ; he 
asserted th^t I was heterodox, I retorted the charge ; 



VICAK OF WAKEFIELD. ll 

he replied, and I rejoined. In the meantime, while 
the controversy was hottest, I was called out by one 
of my relations, who, with a face of concern, advised 
me to give up the dispute, at least till my son's wed- 
ding was over. " How," cried I, '• relinquish the 
cause of truth, and let him be a husband, already 
driven to the very verge of absurdity. You might 
as well advise me to give up my fortune, as my argu- 
ment." " Your fortune," returned my friend, " I am 
now sorry to inform you, is almost nothing. The 
merchant in town in whose hands your money was 
lodged, has gone off, to avoid a statute of bankruptcy, 
and is thought not to have left a shilling in the pound. 
I was unwilling to shock you or the family with the 
account till after the wedding : but now it may serve 
to moderate your warmth in the argument ; for, I 
suppose, your own prudence will enforce the necessity 
of dissembling, at least, till your son has the young 
lady's fortune secure." " Well," returned I, " if 
what you tell me be true, and if I am to be a beggar, 
it shall never make me a rascal, or induce me to dis- 
avow my principles. I '11 go this moment and inform 
the company of my circumstances ; and as for the 
argument, I even here retract my former concessions 
in the old gentleman's favor, nor will I allow him 
now to be a husband in any sense of the expres- 
sion." 

It would be endless to describe the different sen- 
sations of both families when I divulged the news of 
our misfortune: but what others felt was slight to 



12 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



what the lovers appeared to endure. Mr. Wilmot, 
who seemed before sufficiently inclined to break off 
the match, was by this blow soon determined ; one 
virtue, he had in perfection, which was prudence, too 
often the only one that is left us at seventy-two. 





CHAPTER III. 

A MIGRATION. — THE FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCES 
OF OUR LIVES ARE GENERALLY FOUND AT LAST 
TO BE OP OUR OWN PROCURING. 

The only hope of our family now was, that the 
report of our misfortune might be malicious or pre- 
mature ; but a letter from my agent in town soon 
came with a confirmation of every particular. The 
loss of fortune to myself alone would have been tri- 
fling ; the only uneasiness I felt was for my family, 
who were to be humble without an education to ren- 
der them callous to contempt. 

Near a fortnight had passed before I attempted to 
restrain their affliction ; for premature consolation is 
but the remembrancer of sorrow. During this inter- 
val, my thoughts were employed on some future 
means of supporting them ; and at last a small cure 
of fifteen pounds a year was offered me in a distant 
neighborhood, where I could still enjoy my principles 
without molestation. With this proposal I joyfully 
closed, having determined to increase my salary by 
managing a little farm. 

Having taken this resolution, my next care was to 
get together the wrecks of my fortune : and, all debts 



14 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

collected and paid, out of fourteen thousand pounds 
we had but four hundred remaining. My chief at- 
tention, therefore, was now to bring down the pride 
of my family to their circumstances ; for I well knew 
that aspiring beggary is wretchedness itself. " You 
cannot be ignorant, my children," cried I, " that no 
prudence of ours could have prevented our late mis- 
fortune ; but prudence may do much in disappointing 
its effects. We are now poor, my fondlings, and wis- 
dom bids us conform to our humble situation. Let 
us then, without repining, give up those splendors in 
which numbers are wretched, and seek in humbler 
circumstances that peace with which all may be 
happy. The poor live pleasantly without our help, 
why then should we not learn to live without theirs ? 
No, my children, let us from this moment give up all 
pretentions to gentility ; we have still enough left for 
happiness, if we are wise ; and let us draw upon con- 
tent for the deficiencies of fortune." ^ 

As my eldest son was bred a scholar, I determined 
to send him to town, where his abilities might con- 
tribute to our support and his own. The separation 
of friends and families is, perhaps, one of the most 
distressful circumstances attendant on penury. The 
day soon arrived on which we were to disperse for 
the first time. My son, after taking leave of his 
mother and the rest, who mingled their tears with 
their kisses, came to ask a blessing from me. This I 
gave him from my heart, and which, added to five 
guineas, was all the patrimony I had now to bestow. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 15 

" You are going, my boy," cried I, " to London on 
foot, in the manner Hooker, your great ancestor, 
traveled there before you. Take from me the same 
horse that was given him by the good Bishop Jewel, 
this staff, and this book too, it will be your comfort 
on the way : these two lines in it are worth a million, 
/ have been young, and now am old; yet never saw I 
the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their 
bread. Let this be your consolation as you travel 
on. Go, my boy ; whatever be thy fortune, let me 
see thee once a year ; still keep a good heart, and 
farewell." As he was possessed of integrity and 
honor, I was under no apprehensions for throwing 
him naked into the amphitheatre of life ; for I knew 
he would act a good part whether vanquished or vic- 
torious. 

His departure only prepared the way for our own, 
which arrived a few days afterwards. The leaving a 
neighborhood in which we had enjoyed so many 
hours of tranquillity, was not without a tear which 
scarcely fortitude itself could suppress. Besides, a 
journey of seventy miles to a family that had hitherto 
never been above ten from home, filled us with ap- 
prehension ; and the cries of the poor, who followed 
us for some miles, contributed to increase it. The 
first day's journey brought us in safety within thirty 
miles of our future retreat, and we put up for the 
night at an obscure inn in a village by the way. 
When we were shown a room, I desired the landlord, 
in my usual way, to let us have his company, with 



16 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

which, he complied, as what he drank would increase 
the bill next morning. He knew, however, the 
whole neighborhood to which I was removing, par- 
ticularly Squire Thornhill, who was to be my land- 
lord, and who lived within a few miles of the place. 
This gentleman he described as one who desired to 
know little more of the world than its pleasures, be- 
ing particularly remarkable for his attachment to 
the fair sex. He observed that no virtue was able 
to resist his arts and assiduity, and that scarcely a 
farmer's daughter within ten miles round, but what 
had found him successful and faithless. Though 
this account gave me some pain, it had a very differ- 
ent effect upon my daughters, whose features seemed 
to brighten with the expectation of an approaching 
triumph : nor was my wife less pleased and confident 
of their allurements and virtue. While our thoughts 
were thus employed, the hostess entered the room to 
inform her husband, that the strange gentleman, who 
had been two days in the house, wanted money, and 
could not satisfy them for his reckoning. " Want 
money ! " replied the host, " that must be impossi- 
ble ; for it was no later than yesterday he paid three 
guineas to our beadle to spare an old broken soldier 
that was to be whipped through the town for dog- 
stealing." The hostess, however, still persisting in 
her first assertion, he was preparing to leave the 
room, swearing that he would be satisfied one way 
or another, when I begged the landlord would in- 
troduce me to a stranger of so much charity as he 



• VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 17 

described. With this he complied, showing in a gen- 
tleman who seemed to be about thirty, dressed in 
clothes that once were laced. His person was well 
formed, and his face marked with the lines of think- 
ing. He had something short and dry in his address, 
and seemed not to understand ceremony, or to despise 
it. Upon the landlord's leaving the room, I could 
not avoid expressing my concern to the stranger at 
seeing a gentleman in such circumstances, and offered 
him my purse to satisfy the present demand. " I 
take it with all my heart, sir," replied he, " and am 
glad that a late oversight in giving what money I had 
about me, has shown me that there are still some 
men like you. I must, however, previously entreat 
being informed of the name and residence of my bene- 
factor, in order to repay him as soon as possible." 
In this I satisfied him fully, not only mentioning my 
name and late misfortunes, but the place to which I 
was going to remove. " This," cried he, " happens 
still more luckily than I hoped for, as I am going the 
same way myself, having been detained here two days 
by the floods, which I hope by to-morrow will be 
found passable." I testified the pleasure I should 
have in his company, and my wife and daughters 
joining in entreaty, he was prevailed upon to stay 
supper. The stranger's conversation, which was at 
once pleasing and instructive, induced me to wish for 
a continuance of it; but it was now high time to 
retire and take refreshment against the fatigues of 
the following day. 



18 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

The next morning we all set forward together : my 
family on horseback, while Mr. Burchell,^ our new 
companion, walked along the foot-path by the road- 
side, observing with a smile, that as we were ill- 
mounted, he would be too generous to attempt leav- 
ing us behind. As the floods were not yet subsided, 
we were obliged to hire a guide, who trotted on be- 
fore, Mr. Burchell and I bringing up the rear. We 
lightened the fatigues of the road with philosophical 
disputes, which he seemed to understand perfectly. 
But what surprised me most was, that though he was 
a money-borrower, he defended his opinions with as 
much obstinacy as if he had been my patron. He 
now and then also informed me to whom the differ- 
ent seats belonged that lay in our view as we traveled 
the road. " That," cried he, pointing to a very mag- 
nificent house which stood at some distance, " belongs 
to Mr. Thornhill, a young gentleman who enjoys a 
large fortune, though entirely dependent on the will 
of his uncle, Sir William Thornhill, a gentleman, who 
content with a little himself, permits his nephew to 
enjoy the rest, and chiefly resides in town." " What ! " 
cried I, " is my young landlord then the nephew of a 
man, whose virtues, generosity, and singularities are 
so universally known? I have heard Sir William 
Thornhill represented as one of the most generous 
yet whimsical men in the kingdom ; a man of con- 

1 One of Goldsmith's relations married a person named Bur- 
chell, which may have suggested this name when writing the 
tale. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 19 

summate benevolence." " Something, perhaps, too 
much so," replied Mr. Burchell ; " at least he carried 
benevolence to an excess when young ; for his pas- 
sions were then strong, and as they were all upon 
the side of virtue, they led it up to a romantic ex- 
treme. He early began to aim at the qualifications of 
the soldier and scholar ; was soon distinguished in the 
army, and had some reputation among men of learn- 
ing. Adulation ever follows the ambitious ; for such 
alone receive most pleasure from flattery. He was 
surrounded with crowds, who showed him only one 
side of their character ; so that he began to lose a re- 
gard for private interest in universal sympathy. He 
loved all mankind ; for fortune prevented him from 
knowing that there were rascals. Physicians tell us 
of a disorder, in which the whole body is so exqui- 
sitely sensible that the slightest touch gives pain ; 
what some have thus suffered in their persons, this 
gentleman felt in his mind. The slightest distress, 
whether real or fictitious, touched him to the quick, 
and his soul labored under a sickly sensibility of the 
miseries of others. Thus disposed to relieve, it will 
be easily conjectured he found numbers disposed to 
solicit ; his profusions began to impair his fortune, 
but not his good-nature ; that, indeed, was seen to 
increase as the other seemed to decay ; he grew im- 
provident as he grew poor ; and though he talked 
like a man of sense, his actions were those of a fool. 
Still, however, being surrounded with importunity, 
and no longer able to satisfy every request that was 



20 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

made him, instead of money he gave promises. They 
were all he had to bestow, and he had not resolution 
enough to give any man pain by a denial. By this 
he drew round him crowds of dependents, whom he 
was sure to disappoint, yet wished to relieve. These 
hung upon him for a time, and left him with merited 
reproaches and contempt. But in proportion as he 
became contemptible to others, he became despicable 
to himself. His mind had leaned upon their adula- 
tion, and that support taken away, he could find no 
pleasure in the applause of his heart, which he had 
never learnt to reverence. The world now began to 
wear a different aspect ; the flattery of his friends 
began to dwindle into simple approbation. Approba- 
tion soon took the more friendly form of advice, and 
advice when rejected produced their reproaches. He 
now therefore found, that such friends as benefits had 
gathered round him, were little estimable ; he now 
found that a man's own heart must be ever given to 
gain that of another. I now found that — that — I 
forgot what I was going to observe : in short, sir, he 
resolved to respect himself, and laid down a plan of 
restoring his fallen fortune. For this purpose, in his 
own whimsical manner, he traveled through Europe 
on foot, and now, though he has scarcely attained 
the age of thirty,^ his circumstances are more affluent 
than ever. At present, his bounties are more rational 
and more moderate than before ; but still he preserves 

1 Allusions which recall the time, place, and manner of some of 
Goldsmith's own adventures. 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 21 

the character of a humorist, and finds most pleasure 
in eccentric virtues." 

Mj attention was so much taken up by Mr. Bur- 
chell's account, that I scarcely looked forward as we 
went along, till we were alarmed by the cries of my 
family, when turning, I perceived my youngest daugh- 
ter in the midst of a rapid stream, thrown from her 
horse, and struggling with the toi-rent. She had 
sunk twice, nor was it in my power to disengage my- 
self in time to bring her relief. My sensations were 
even too violent to permit my attempting her rescue : 
she must have certainly perished had not my compan- 
ion, perceiving her danger, instantly plunged in to 
her relief, and, with some difficulty, brought her 
safely to the opposite shore. By taking the current 
a little further up, the rest of the family got safely 
over, where we had an opportunity of joining our ac- 
knowledgments to her's. Her gratitude may be more 
readily imagined than described ; she thanked her 
deliverer more with looks than words, and continued 
to lean upon his arm, as if still willing to receive as- 
sistance. My wife also hoped one day to have the 
pleasure of returning his kindness at her own house. 
Thus, after we were refreshed at the next inn, and 
had dined together, as Mr. Burchell was going to a 
different part of the country he took leave ; and we 
pursued our journey my wife observing as we went, 
that she liked him extremely, and protesting that, if 
he had birth and fortune to entitle him to match into 
such a family as ours, she knew no man she would 



22 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



sooner fix upon. I could not but smile to hear her 
talk in this lofty strain ; ^ but I was never much dis- 
pleased with those harmless delusions that tend to 
make us more happy. 

1 " One almost at the verge of beggary, thus to assume the lan- 
guage of the most insulting affluence, might excite the ridicule of 
ill-nature; but I was never," &c. — First Edit. 





CHAPTER IV. 

A PROOF THAT EVEN THE HUMBLEST FORTUNE MAY 
GRANT HAPPINESS, WHICH DEPENDS NOT ON CIR- 
CUMSTANCES BUT CONSTITUTION. 

The place of our retreat was in a little neighbor- 
hood, consisting of farmers, who tilled their own 
grounds, and were equal strangers to opulence and 
poverty. As they had almost all the conveniences 
of life within themselves, they seldom visited towns 
or cities in search of superfluity. Remote from the 
polite, they still retained the primeval simplicity of 
manners, and frugal by habit, they scarcely knew that 
temperance was a virtue. They wrought with cheer- 
fulness on days of labor : but observed festivals as 
intervals of idleness and pleasure. They kept up the 
Christmas carol, sent true love-knots on Valentine 
morning, eat pancakes on Shrovetide, showed their 
wit on the first of April, and religiously cracked nuts 
on Michaelmas eve. Being apprised of our approach, 
the whole neighborhood came out to meet their min- 
ister, dressed in their finest clothes, and preceded by 
pipe and tabor. A feast was also provided for our 
reception, at which we sat cheerfully down ; and what 
the conversation wanted in wit, was made up in 
laughter. 



24 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

Our little habitation was situated at the foot of a 
sloping hill, sheltered with beautiful underwood be- 
hind and a prattling river before ; on one side a 
meadow, on the other a green. My farm consisted 
of about twenty acres of excellent land, having given 
a hundred pounds for my predecessor's good will. 
Nothing could exceed the neatness of my little in- 
closures ; the elms and hedge-rows appearing with 
inexpressible beauty. My house consisted of but one 
story, and was covered with thatch, which gave it an 
air of great snuguess ; the walls on the inside were 
nicely whitewashed, and my daughters undertook to 
adorn them with pictures of their own designing. 
Though the same room served us for parlor and 
kitchen, that only made it the warmer. Besides, as it 
was kept with the utmost neatness, the dishes, plates 
and coppers, being well scoured, and all disposed in 
bright rows on the shelves, the eye was agreeably re- 
lieved, and did not want richer furniture. There 
were three other apartments, one for my wife and me, 
another for our two daughters, within our own, and 
the third, with two beds, for the rest of the children. 

The little republic to which I gave laws, was regu- 
lated in the following manner ; by sun-rise we all 
assembled in our common apartment ; the fire being 
previously kindled by the servant. After we had 
saluted each other with proper ceremony, for I always 
thought fit to keep up some mechanical forms of 
good breeding, without which freedom ever destroys 
friendship, we all bent in gratitude to that Being who 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 25 

gave us another day. This duty being performed, 
my son and I went to pursue our usual industry 
abroad, while my wife and daughters employed them- 
selves in prpviding breakfast, which was always ready 
at a certain time. I allowed half an hour for this 
meal, and an hour for dinner ; which time was taken 
up in innocent mirth between my wife and daughters, 
and in philosophical arguments between my son and 
me. 

As we rose with the sun, so we never pursued our 
labors after it was gone down, but returned home to 
the expecting family ; where smiling looks, a neat 
hearth, and pleasant fire, were prepared for our re- 
ception. Nor were we without guests ; sometimes 
Farmer Flamborough, our talkative neighbor, and 
often the blind piper, would pay us a visit, and taste 
our gooseberry wine ; for the making of which we 
had lost neither the receipt nor the reputation. These 
harmless people had several ways of being good com- 
pany ; while one played, the other would sing some 
soothing ballad, Johnny Armstrong's last good night, 
or the cruelty of Barbara Allen. The night was con- 
cluded in the manner we began the morning, my 
youngest boys being appointed to read the lessons of 
the day ; and he that read loudest, distinctest, and 
best, was to have a half-penny on Sunday to put in 
the poor's box. 

When Sunday came, it was indeed a day of finery, 
which all my sumptuary edicts could not restrain. 
How well soever I fancied my lectures against pride 



26 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

had conquered the vanity of my daughters, yet I 
found them still secretly attached to all their former 
finery ; they still loved laces, ribands, bugles and cat- 
gut ; my wife herself retained a passion for her crim- 
son paduasoy, because I formerly happened to say it 
became her. 

The first Sunday in particular their behavior served 
to mortify me ; I had desired my girls the preceding 
night to be drest early the next day ; for I alvrays 
loved to be at church a good while before the rest of 
the congregation. They punctually obeyed my di- 
rections ; but when we were to assemble in the morn- 
ing at breakfast, down came my wife and daughters, 
drest out in all their former splendor : their hair 
plastered, up with pomatum, their faces patched to 
taste, their trains bundled up in a heap behind, and 
rustling at every motion. I could not help smiling 
at their vanity, particularly that of my wife, from 
whom I expected more discretion. In this exigence, 
therefore, my only resource was to order my son, 
with an important air, to call our coach. The girls 
were amazed at the command ; but I repeated it with 
more solemnity than before. — " Surely, my dear, jou 
jest," cried my wife, " we can walk it perfectly well : 
we want no coach to carry us now." " You mistake, 
child," returned I, " we do want a coach ; for if we 
walk to church in this trim, the very children in the 
parish will hoot after us." "Indeed," replied my 
wife, " I always imagined that my Charles was fond 
of seeing his children neat and handsome about him." 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 27 

" You may be as neat as you please," interrupted 
I, " and I shall love you the better for it ; but all this 
is not neatness, but frippery. These rufflings, and 
pinkings, and patchings, will only make us hated by 
all the wives of all our neighbors. No, my children," 
continued I, more gravely, " those gowns may be al- 
tered into something of a plainer cut ; for finery is 
very unbecoming in us, who want the means of de- 
cency. I do not know whether such flouncing and 
shredding is becoming even in the rich, if we consider, 
upon a moderate calculation, that the nakedness of 
the indigent world might be clothed from the trim- 
mings of the vain." 

This remonstrance had a proper effect ; they went 
with great composure, that very instant, to change 
their dress ; and the next day I had the satisfaction 
of finding my daughters, at their own request, em- 
ployed in cutting up their trains into Sunday waist- 
coats for Dick and Bill, the two little ones, and what 
was still more satisfactory, the gowns seemed im- 
proved by this curtailing. 




*^ 


1 


^H 


^ 1 i\\iif 


&f 



CHAPTER V. 

A NEAV AND GREAT ACQUAINTANCE INTRODUCED. 

WHAT WE PLACE MOST HOPES UPON GENERALLY 
PROVES MOST FATAL. 

At a small distance from the house, my predeces- 
sor had made a seat, overshadowed by a hedge of 
hawthorn and honeysuckle. Here, when the weather 
was fine and our labor soon finished, we usually sat 
together, to enjoy an extensive landscape in the calm 
of the evening. Here too we drank tea, which was 
now become an occasional banquet ; and as we had it 
but seldom it diffused a new joy, the preparations for 
it being made with no small share of bustle and cere- 
mony. On these occasions our two little ones always 
read to us, and they were regularly served after wo 
had done. Sometimes, to give a variety to our amuse- 
ments, the girls sung to the guitar ; and while they 
thus formed a little concert, my wife and I would 
stroll down the sloping field, that was embellished 
with blue-bells and centaury, talk of our children with 
rapture, and enjoy the breeze that wafted both health 
and harmony. 

In this manner we began to find that every situa- 
tion in life might bring its own peculiar pleasures ; 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 29 

every morning awaked us to a repetition of toil ; but 
the evening repaid it with vacant hilarity. 

It was about the beginning of the autumn, on a 
holiday, for I kept such as intervals of relaxation 
from labor, that I had drawn out my family to our 
usual place of amusement, and our young musicians 
began their usual concert. As we were thus engaged, 
we saw a stag bound nimbly by, within about twenty 
paces of where we were sitting, and by its panting it 
seemed pressed by the hunters. "We had not much 
time to reflect upon the poor animal's distress, when 
we perceived the dogs and horsemen come sweeping 
along at some distance behind, and making the very 
path it had taken. I was instantly for returning in 
with my family ; but either curiosity, or surprise, or 
some more hidden motive, held my wife and daugh- 
ters to their seats. The huntsman, who rode foremost, 
passed us with great swiftness, followed by four or 
five persons more, who seemed in equal haste. At 
last, a young gentleman of a more genteel appearance 
than the rest came forward, and for a while regarding 
us, instead of pursuing the chase, stopt short, and giv- 
ing his horse to a servant who attended, approached 
us with a careless superior air. He seemed to want 
no introduction, but was going to salute my daugh- 
ters, as one certain of a kind reception ; but they had 
earlyQ.earnt the lesson of looking presumption out of 
countenance?\ Upon which he let us know his name 
was Thornhiii, and that he was the owner of the es- 
tate that lay for some extent round us. He again 



80 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

therefore offered to salute the female part of the fam- 
ily, and such was the power of fortune and fine 
clothes, that he found no second repulse. As his ad- 
dress, though confident, was easy, we soon became 
more familiar ; and perceiving musical instruments 
Ijdng near, he begged to be fiivored with a song. As 
I did not approve of such disproportioned acquain- 
tance, I winked upon my daughters in order to pre- 
vent their compliance ; but my hint was counteracted 
by one from their mother ; so that, with a cheerful 
air, they gave us a favorite song of Dryden's. Mr. 
Thornhill seemed highly delighted with their per- 
formance and choice, and then took up the guitar 
himself. He played but very indiiferently ; however, 
my eldest daughter repaid his former applause with 
interest, and assured him that his tones were louder 
than even those of her master. At this compliment 
he bowed, which she returned with a courtesy. He 
praised her taste, and she commended his understand- 
ing; an age could not have made them better ac- 
quainted : while the fond mother, too, equally happy, 
insisted upon her landlord's stepping in, and tasting a 
glass of gooseberry. The whole family seemed earn- 
est to please him : my girls attempted to entertain him 
with topics they thought most modern, while Moses, 
on the contrary, gave him a question or two from the 
ancients, for which he had the satisfaction of being 
laughed at:^ my little ones were no less busy, and 

1 "For he alvvaj^s ascribed to his wit that laughter which was 
lavished at his simplicity." — Fh^st Edit. 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 31 

fondly stuck close to the stranger. All my endeav- 
ors could scarcely keep their fingers from handling 
and tarnishing the lace on his clothes, and lifting up 
the flaps of his pocket-holes, to see what was there. 
At the approach of evening he took leave ; but not 
till he had requested permission to renew his visit, 
which, as he was our landlord, we most readily agreed 
to. 

As soon as he was gone, my wife called a council 
on the conduct of the day. She was of opinion, that 
it was a most fortunate hit ; for that she had known 
even stranger things at last brought to bear. She 
hoped again to see the day in which we might hold 
up our heads with the best of them ; and concluded, 
she protested she could see no reason why the two 
Miss Wrinkles should marry great fortunes, and her 
children get none. As this last argument was di- 
rected to me, I protested I could see no reason for it 
either, nor why Mr. Simkins got the ten thousand 
pound prize in the lottery, and we sat down with a 
blank.^ " I protest, Charles," cried my wife, " this 
is the way you always damp my girls and me when 
we are in spirits. Tell me, Sophy, my dear, what do 
you think of our new visitor ? Don't you think he 
seemed to be good-natured ! " " Immensely so in- 

1 "But those," added I, "who either aim at husbands greater 
than them<5elves, or at the ten thousand pound prize, have been 
fools for their ridiculous claims, whether successful or not." — 
First Edit. 



32 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

deed, mamma," replied she. " I think he has a great 
deal to say upon everything, and is never at a loss ; 
and the more trifling the subject, the more he has to 
say." " Yes," cried Olivia, " he is well enough for a 
man ; but for my own part, I don't much like him, 
he is so extremely impudent and familiar ; but on the 
guitar he is shocking." These two last speeches I 
interpreted by contraries. I found by this, that 
Sophia internally desjDised, as much as Olivia secretly 
admired him. " Whatever may be your opinions of 
him, my children," cried T, " to confess the truth, he has 
not prepossessed me in his favor. Disproportioned 
friendships ever terminate in disgust ; and I thought, 
notwithstanding all his ease, that he seemed perfectly 
sensible of the distance between us. Let us keep to 
companions of our own rank. There is no character 
more contemptible than a man that is a fortune- 
hunter ; and I can see no reason why fortune-hunting 
women should not be contemptible too. Thus, at 
best, we shall be contemptible if his views be honora- 
ble ; but if they be otherwise ! I should shudder but 
to think of that. It is true I have no apprehensions 
from the conduct of my children, but I think there 
are some from his character." I would have pro- 
ceeded, but for the interruption of a servant from the 
Squire, who, with his compliments, sent us a side of 
venison, and a promise to dine with us some days 
after. This well-timed present pleaded more power- 
fully in his favor than anything I had to say could 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 33 

obviate. I therefore continued silent, satisfied with 
just having pointed out danger, and leaving it to 
their own discretion to avoid it. That virtue which 
requires to be ever guarded, is scarcely worth the 

sentinel. 

3 





CHAPTER VI. 



THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY FIRESIDE. 



As we carried on the former dispute with some 
deofree of warmth, iu order to accommodate matters, 
it was universally agreed, that we should have a part 
of the venison for supper ; and the girls undertook 
the task with alacrity. " I am sorry," cried I, " that 
we have no neighbor or stranger to take a part in 
this good cheer ; feasts of this kind acquire a double 
relish from hospitality." " Bless me," cried my wife, 
"here comes our good friend Mr. Burchell, that 
saved our Sophia, and that ran you down fairly in 
the argument." " Confute me in argument, child ! " 
cried I. " You mistake there, my dear ; I believe 
there are but few that can do that ; I never dispute 
your abilities at making a goose-pie, and I beg you '11 
leave argument to me." As I spoke, poor Mr. Bur- 
chell entered the house, and was welcomed by the 
family, who shook him heartily by the hand, while 
little Dick officiously reached him a chair. 

I was pleased with the poor man's friendship for 
two reasons ; because I knew that he wanted mine, 
and I knew him to be friendly as far as he was 
able. He was known in our neighborhood by the 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 35 

character of the poor Gentleman that would do no 
good when he was young, though he was not yet 
thirty. He would at intervals talk with great good 
sense ; but in general he was fondest of the company 
of children, whom he used to call harmless little men. 
He was famous, I found, for singing them ballads, 
and telling them stories ; and seldom went out with- 
out something in his pockets for them ; a piece of 
gingerbread, or a halfpenny whistle. He generally 
came for a few days into our neighborhood once a 
year, and lived upon the neighbors' hospitality. He 
sat down to supper among us, and my wife was not 
sparing of her gooseberry wine. The tale went 
round ; he sung us old songs, and gave the children 
the story of the Buck of Beverland, with the history 
of Patient Grissel, the adventures of Catskin, and 
then Fair Rosamond's Bower. Our cock, which 
always crew at eleven, now told us it was time for 
repose ; but an unforeseen difficulty started about 
lodging the stranger — all our beds were already 
taken up, and it was too late to send him to the next 
ale-house. In this dilemma, little Dick offered him 
his part of the bed, if his brother Moses would let 
him lie with him : " And I," cried Bill, " will give 
Mr. Burchell my part, if my sisters will take me to 
theirs." " Well done, my good children," cried I, 
" hospitality is one of the first Christian duties. The 
beast retires to his shelter, and the bird flies to its 
nest ; but helpless man can only find refuge from his 
fellow creature. The greatest stranger in this world, 



3j5 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

was he that came to save it. He never had a house, 
as if willing to see what hosiDitality was left remain- 
ing amongst us. Deborah, my clear," cried I to my 
wife, " give those boys a lump of sugar each, and let 
Dick's be the largest, because he spoke first." 

In the morning early I called out my whole family 
to help at saving an after-growth of hay, and our 
guest offering his assistance, he was accepted among 
the number. Our labors went on lightly ; we turned 
the swath to the wind. I went foremost, and the 
rest followed in due succession. I could not avoid, 
however, observing the assiduity of Mr. Burchell in 
assisting my daughter Sophia in her part of the task. 
When he had finished his own, he would join in her's, 
and enter into a close conversation ; but I had too 
good an opinion of Sophia's understanding, and was 
too well convinced of her ambition, to be under any 
uneasiness from a man of broken fortune. When we 
were finished for the day, Mr. Burchell was invited 
as on the night before ; but he refused, as he was to 
lie that night at a neighbor's, to whose child he was 
carrying a whistle. When gone, our conversation at 
supper turned upon our late unfortunate guest. 
"What a strong instance," said I, "is that poor man 
of the miseries attending a youth of levity and ex- 
travagance ! He by no means wants sense, which 
only serves to aggravate his former folly. Poor for- 
lorn creature, where are now the revellers, the flat- 
terers, that he could once inspire and command ! 
Gone, perhaps, to attend the bagnio pander, grown 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 37 

ricli by his extravagance. They once praised him, 
and now they applaud the pander ; their former rap- 
tures at his wit are now converted into sarcasms at 
his folly : he is poor, and perhaps deserves poverty ; 
for he has neither the ambition to be independent, 
nor the skill to be useful." Prompted, perhaps, by 
some secret reasons, I delivered this observation with 
too much acrimony, which my Sophia gently reproved 
— " Whatsoever his former conduct may have been, 
papa, his circumstances should exempt him from cen- 
sure now. His present indigence is a sufficient pun- 
ishment for former folly ; and I have heard my papa 
himself say, that we should never strike one unneces- 
sary blow at a victim over whom Providence holds 
the scourge of its resentment." "You are right, 
Sophy," cried my son Moses, "and one of the an- 
cients finely represents so malicious a conduct, by the 
attempts of a rustic to flay Marsyas, whose skin, the 
fable tells us, had been wholly stript off by another. 
Besides, I don't know if this poor man's situation be 
so bad as my father would represent it. We are not 
to judge of the feelings of others, by what we might 
feel if in their place. However dark the habitation 
of the mole to our eyes, yet the animal itself finds 
the apartment sufficiently lightsome. And to confess 
the truth, this man's mind seems fitted to his station ; 
for I never heard any one more sprightly than he was 
to-day, when he conversed with you." This was 
Baid without the least design ; however, it excited a 
blush, which she strove to cover by an affected laugh, 



38 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

assuring him, that she scarcely took any notice of 
what he said to her; but that she. believed he naight 
once have been a very fine gentleman. The readi- 
ness with which she undertook to vindicate herself, 
and her blushing, were symptoms I did not internally 
approve ; but I repressed my suspicions. 

As we expected our landlord the next day, my 
wife went to make the venison pasty. Moses sat 
reading, while I taught the little ones : my daughters 
seemed equally busy with the rest ; and I observed 
them for a good while cooking something over the 
fire. I at first supposed they were assisting their 
mother; but little Dick informed me in a whisper, 
that they were making a wash for the face. Washes 
of all kinds I had a natural antipathy to ; for I knew 
that instead of mending the complexion, they spoiled 
it. I therefore approached my chair by sly degrees 
to the fire, and grasping the poker as if it wanted 
mending, seemingly by accident overturned the whole 
composition, and it was too late to begin another. 





CHAPTER VII. 

A. TOWN WIT DESCRIBED THE DULLEST FELLOWS 

MAY LEARN TO BE COMICAL FOR A NIGHT OR TWO. 

When the mornmg arrived on which we were to 
entertain our young landlord, it may be easily sup- 
posed what provisions were exhausted to make an 
appearance. It may also be conjectured that my 
wife and daughters expanded their gayest plumage 
upon this occasion. Mr. Thornhill came with a 
couple of friends, his chaplain and feeder. The ser- 
vants, who were numerous, he politely ordered to the 
next ale-house, but my wife, in the triumph of her 
heart, insisted on entertaining them all ; for which, by 
the bye, our family was pinched for three weeks after. 
As Mr. Burchell had hinted to us the day before, 
that he was making some proposals of marriage to 
Miss Wilmot, my son George's former mistress, this 
a good deal damped the heartiness of his reception : 
but accident in some measure relieved our embarrass- 
ment ; for one of the company happening to mention 
her name, Mr. Thornhill observed with an oath, that 
he- never knew anything more absurd than calling 
such a fright a beauty : " For strike me ugly," con- 
tinued he, "if I should not find as much pleasure in 



40 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

choosing my mistress by the information of a lamp 
under the clock at St. Dunstan's." At this he 
laughed, and so did we ; the jests of the rich are 
ever successful. Qlivia, too, could not avoid whis- 
pering loud enough to be heard, that he had an infi- 
nite fund of humor. 

After dinner, I began with my usual toast, the 
Church ; for this I was thanked by the chaplain, as 
he said the Church was the only mistress of his affec- 
tions. " Come tell us honestly, Frank," said the 
Squire, with his usual archness, " suppose the Church, 
your present mistress, drest in lawn sleeves, on one 
hand, and Miss Sophia, with no lawn about her, on 
the other, which would you be for ? " " For both, to 
be sure," cried the chaplain. " Right, Frank," cried 
the Squire, " for may this glass suffocate me but a 
fine girl is worth all the priestcraft in the creation. 
For what are tithes and tricks but an imposition, all 
a confounded imposture, and I can prove it ? " "I 
wish you would," cried my son Moses ; " and I 
think," continued he, " that I should be able to an- 
swer you." " Very well, sir," cried the Squire, who 
immediately smoked him, and winking on the rest of 
the company to prepare us for some sport, " if you 
are for a cool argument upon that subject, I am 
ready to accept the challenge. And first, whether 
you are for managing it analogically or dialogically ? " 
" I am for managing it rationally," cried Moses, quite 
happy at being permitted to dispute. " Good again," 
cried the Squire, "and firstly, of the first: I hope 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 41 

you '11 not deny, that whatever is, is. If you don't 
grant me that, I can go no further." "Why," re- 
turned Moses, " I think I may grant that, and make 
the best of it." " I hope, "too," returned the other, 
" you '11 grant that a part is less than the whole." " I 
grant that too," cried Moses, " it is but just and rea- 
sonable." " I hope," cried the Squire, '' you will not 
deny, that the two angles of a triangle are equal to 
two right ones." " Nothing can be plainer," returned 
the other, and looked round with his usual impor- 
tance. " Very well," cried the Squire, speaking very 
quick, " the premises being thus settled, I proceed to 
observe, that the concatenation of self-existence, pro- 
ceeding in a reciprocal duplicate ratio, naturally pro- 
duces a problematical dialogism, which in some 
measure proves that the essence of spirituality may 
be referred to the second predicable." " Hold, hold," 
cried the other, " I deny that : Do you think I can 
thus tamely submit to such heterodox doctrines ? " 
" What ! " replied the Squire, as if in a passion, " not 
submit! Answer me one plain question: Do you 
think Aristotle right when he says, that relatives are 
related ? " " Undoubtedly," replied the other. " If 
so, then," cried the Squire, " answer me directly to 
what I propose : Whether do you judge the analytical 
investigation of the first part of my enthymem defi- 
cient secundum quoad, or quoad minus, and give me 
your reasons : give me your reasons, I say, directly." 
" I protest," cried Moses, " I don't rightly compre- 
hend the force of your reasoning; but if it be re- 



42 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

duced to one simple proposition, I fancy it may then 
have an answer." " O sir," cried the Squire, " I am 
your most humble servant; I find you want me to 
furnish you with argument and intellects too. No, 
sir, there I protest you are too hard for me." This 
effectually raised the laugh against poor Moses, who 
sat the only dismal figure in a group of merry faces ; 
nor did he offer a single syllable more during the 
whole entertainment. 

But though all this gave no pleasure, it had a very 
different effect upon Olivia, who mistook it, for humor, 
though but a mere act of the memory. She thought 
him therefore a very fine gentleman ; and such as 
consider what powerful ingredients a good figure, fine 
clothes, and fortune are in that character, will easily 
forgive her. Mr. Thornhill, notwithstanding his real 
ignorance, talked with ease, and could expatiate upon 
the common topics of conversation with fluency. It 
is not surprising, then, that such talents should win 
the affections of a girl, who by education was taught 
to value an appearance in herself, and consequently 
to set a value upon it in another. 

Upon his departure, we again entered into a de- 
bate upon the merits of our young landlord. As he 
directed his looks and conversation to Olivia, it was 
no longer doubted but that she was the object that 
induced him to be our visitor. Nor did she seem to 
be much displeased at the innocent raillery of her 
brother and sister upon this occasion. Even Deborah 
herself seemed to share the glory of the day, and 
exulted in her daughter's victory as if it were her 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 43 

own. "And now, my dear," cried she to me, "I'll 
fairly own, that it was I that instructed my girls to 
encourage our landlord's addresses. I had always 
some ambition, and you now see that I was right ; 
for who knows how this may end ? " " Ay, who 
knows that indeed ! " answered I, with a groan : 
" for my part, I don't much like it ; and I could have 
been better pleased with one that was poor and hon- 
est, than this fine gentleman with his fortune and in- 
fidelity ; for, depend on 't, if he be what I suspect him, 
no free-thinker shall ever have a child of mine." 

" Sure, father," cried Moses, " you are too severe 
in this : for Heaven will never arraign him for what 
he thinks, but for what he does. Every man has a 
thousand vicious thoughts, which arise without his 
power to suppress. Thinking freely of religion may 
be involuntary with this gentleman ; so that, allow- 
ing his sentiments to be wrong, yet as he is purely 
passive in his assent, he is no more to be blamed for 
his errors, than the governor of a city without walls 
for the shelter he is obliged to afford an invading 
enemy." 

" True, my son," cried I ; " but if the governor in- 
vites the enemy there, he is justly culpable. And 
such is always the case with those who embrace error. 
The vice does not lie in assenting to the proofs they 
see ; but in being blind to many of the proofs that 
offer.^ So that, though our erroneous opinions be 

1 " Like corrupt judges on a bench, they determine right to that 
part of the evidence the}^ hear ; but they will not hear all the evi- 
dence. Thus my son, though," &c. — First Edit. 



44 VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 

involuntary when formed, yet as we have been wil- 
fully corrupt, or very negligent in forming them, we 
deserve punishment for our vice, or contempt for our 
folly." 

My wife now kept up the conversation, though not 
the argument: she observed, that several very pru- 
dent men of our acquaintance were free-thinkers, and 
made very good husbands ; and she knew some sen- 
sible girls that had skill enough to make converts of 
their spouses : " And who knows, my dear," con- 
tinued she, " what Olivia may be able to do. The 
girl has a great deal to say upon every subject, and 
to my knowledge is very well skilled in contro- 
versy." 

" Why, my dear, what controversy can she have 
read ? " cried I : "It does not occur to me that I ever 
put such books into her hand ; you certainly over- 
rate her merit." " Indeed, . papa," replied Olivia, 
" she does not ; I have read a great deal of contro- 
versy. I have read the disputes between Thwackum 
and Square ; the controvesy between Robinson Cru- 
soe and Friday the savage, and am now employed in 
reading the controversy in ' Religious Courtship.' " ^ 
" Very well," cried I, " that 's a good girl, I find you 
are perfectly qualified for making converts ; and so 
help your mother to make the gooseberry-pie." 

1 A work written in 1722, by Daniel Defoe, to exhibit in a fa- 
miliar manner the unhappy consequences of marriage between 
persons of opposite persuasions in religion. 




CHAPTER VIII. 

AN AMOUR WHICH PROMISES LITTLE GOOD FOR- 
TUNE, YET MAY BE PRODUCTIVE OF MUCH. 

The next morning we were again visited by Mr. 
Burchell, though I began, for certain reasons, to be 
displeased with the frequency of his return ; but I 
could not refuse him my company and my fireside. 
It is true, his labor more than requited his entertain- 
ment ; for he wrought among us with vigor, and 
either in the meadow or at the hay-rick put himself 
foremost. Besides, he had always something amus- 
ing to say that lessened our toil, and was at once so 
out of the way, and yet so sensible, that I loved, 
laughed at, and pitied him. My only dislike arose 
from an attachment he discovered to my daughter ; 
he would, in a jesting manner, call her his little mis- 
tress, and when he bought each of the girls a set of 
ribbons, hers was the finest. I knew not how, but 
he every day seemed to become more amiable, his 
wit to improve, and his simplicity to assume the su- 
perior airs of wisdom. 

Our family dined in the field, and we sat, or rather 
reclined round a temperate repast, our cloth spread 
upon the hay, while Mr. Burchell gave cheerfulness 



46 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

to the feast. To heighten our satisfaction two black- 
birds answered each other from opposite hedges, the 
familiar redbreast came and pecked the crumbs from 
our hands, and every sound seemed but the echo of 
tranquillity. " I never sit thus," says Sophia, " but I 
think of the two lovers so sweetly described by Mr. 
Gay, who were struck dead in each other's arms. 
There is something so pathetic in the description that 
I have read it a hundred times with new rapture." 
" In my opinion," cried my son, " the finest strokes 
in that description are much below those in the Acis 
and Galatea of Ovid. The Roman poet understands 
the use of contrast better ; and upon that figure art- 
full}^ managed, all strength. in the pathetic depends." 
" It is remarkable," cried Mr. Burchell, " that both 
the poets you mention have equally contributed to 
introduce a fiilse taste into their respective countries, 
by loading all their lines with epithet. Men of little 
genius found them most easily imitated in their de- 
fects, and English poetry, like that in the latter em- 
pire of Rome, is nothing at present but a combination 
of luxuriant images, without plot or connection ; a 
string of epithets that improve the sound, without 
carrying on the sense. But perhaps, madam, while 
I thus reprehend others, you '11 think it just that I 
should give them an opportunity to retaliate, and in- 
deed I have made the remark only to have an oppor- 
tunity of introducing to the company a ballad, which, 
whatever be its other defects, is, I think, at least free 
from those I have mentioned." 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 47 



A BALLAD. 



*' Turn, gentle Hermit of tlie dale, 
And guide my lonely way, 
To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

" For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
With fainting steps and slow; 
Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
Seem lengthening as I go." 

*' Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 
" To tempt the dangerous gloom; 
For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

' ' Here to the houseless child of want 
My door is open still; 
And though my portion is but scant, 
I give it with good will. 

" Then turn to-night, and freely share 
Whate'er my cell bestows ; 
My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
My blessing and repose. 

" No flocks that range the valley free 
To slaughter I condemn ; 
Taught. by that power that pities me, 
I learn to pity them : 



48 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

" But from the mountain's grassy side, 
A guiltless feast I bring ; 
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 
And water from the spring. 

*' Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego, 
■All earth-born cares are wrong ; 

)Man wants but little here below. 
Nor wants that little long." 

Soft as the dew from Heaven descends, 

His gentle accents fell, 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in a wilderness obscure 

The lonely mansion lay, 
A refuge to the neighb'ring poor 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 
Required a master's care ; 

The wicket, op'ning with a latch, 
Keceived the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 
To take their ev'ning rest, 

The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, 
And cheer'd his pensive guest : 

And spread his vegetable store. 
And gayly press'd and smil'd ; 

And skill 'd in legendary lore. 
The linof'rino: hours beaiuil'd. 



n 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 49 

Around in sympatlietic mirth 

Its tricks the kitten tries, 
The cricket chirrups in the hearth, 

The crackling fagot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 

To soothe the stranger's woe ; 
For grief was heavy at his heart, 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the Hermit spied, 

With answ'ring care opprest : 
And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
* ' The sorrows of thy breast ? 



*' From better habitations spurn'd, 
Reluctant dost thou rove ? 
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 
Or unregarded love ? 

*' Alas ! the joys that fortune brings 
Are trifling, and decay ; 
And those who prize the paltry things, 
More trifling still than they. 

" And what is friendship but a name, 
A charm that lulls to sleep ; 
A shade that follows wealth or fame ■ 
But leaves the wretch to weep ? 

*i And love is still an emptier sound, 

The modern fair-one's jest ; 

On earth unseen, or only found 

To warm the turtle's nest. 

4 



50 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

" For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, 
And spurn the sex," he said; 
But while he spoke, a rising blush 
His love-lorn guest betray'd. 

Surpris'd, he sees new beauties rise, 
Swift mantling to the view ; 

Like colors o'er the morning skies, 
As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 

Alternate spread alarms : 
The lovely stranger stands confest 

A maid in all her charms. 

*' And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
A wretch forlorn," she cried ; 
Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
Where Heaven and you reside. 

*' But let a maid thy pity share, 

Whom love has taught to stray ; 
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

*' My father liv'd beside the Tyne, 
A wealthy lord was he ; 
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, 
He had but only me. 

" To win me from his tender arms, 
Unnumber'd suitors came ; 
Who prais'd me for imputed charms, 
And felt or feign'd a flame. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 61 

*' Each hour a mercenary crowd 
With richest proffers strove ; 
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, 
But never talk'd of love. 

*' In humble, simplest habit clad, 
No wealth nor power had he ; 
Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
But these were all to me. 

** And when beside me in the dale. 
He carol'd lays of love. 
His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 
And music to the grove. 

*' The blossom opening to the day, 
The dews of Heaven refin'd, 
Could naught of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 

** The dew, the blossom on the tree. 
With charms inconstant shine ; 
Their charms were his, but woe to me, 
Their constancy was mine. 

" For still I tried each fickle art. 
Importunate and vain ; 
And while his passion touch'd my heart, 
I triumph 'd in his pain. 

" Till quite dejected with my scorn. 
He left me to my pride ; 
And sought a solitude folorn. 
In secret, where he died. 



52 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

" But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 
And well my life shall pay ; 
I '11 seek the solitude he sought, 
And stretch me where he lay. 

*' And there forlorn, despairing, hid, 
I '11 lay me down and die ; 
'T was so for me that Edwin did, 
And so for him will I. '' 

*' Forbid it, Heaven ! " the Hermit cried, 
And clasp'd her to his breast : 
The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide — 
'T was Edwin's self that prest. 

*' Turn, Angelina, ever dear ! 
My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here 
Restor'd to love and thee. 

♦ ' Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
And every care resign : 
And shall we never, never part. 
My life — my all that 's mine? 

" No, never from this hour to part, 
We '11 live and love so true ; 
The sigh that rends thy constant heart, 
Shall break thy Edwin's too." 

While this ballad was reading, Sophia seemed to 
mix an air of tenderness with her approbation. But 
our tranquillity was soon disturbed by the report of a 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 53 

gun just by us, and immediately after a man was seen 
bursting through the hedge, to take up the game he 
had killed. This sportsman was the Squire's chap- 
lain, who had shot one of the blackbirds that so agree- 
ably entertained us. So loud a report, and so near, 
startled my daughters; and I could perceive that 
Sophia, in the fright, had thrown herself into Mr. 
Burcheli's arms for protection. The gentleman came 
up and asked pardon for having disturbed us, affirm- 
ing that he was ignorant of our being so near. He 
therefore sat down by my youngest daughter, and, 
sportsman-like, oifered her what he had killed that 
morning. She was going to refuse, but a private look 
from her mother soon induced her to correct the mis- 
take, and accept his present, though with some reluc- 
tance. My wife, as usual, discovered her pride in a 
whisper, observing, that Sophy had made a conquest 
of the chaplain, as well as her sister had of the Squire. 
I suspected, however, with more probability, that her 
affections were placed upon a different object. The 
chaplain's errand was to inform us, that Mr. Thorn- 
hill had provided music and refreshments, and in- 
tended that night giving the young ladies a ball by 
moonlight, on the grass-plot before our door. " Nor 
can I deny," continued he, " but I have an interest in 
being first to deliver this message, as I expect for my 
reward to be honored with Miss Sophy's hand as a 
partner." To this my girl replied, that she should 
have no objection, if she could do it with honor ; 
" but here," continued she, " is a gentleman," looking 



54 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

at Mr. Burcliell, " who has been my companion in the 
task for the day, and it is fit he should share in its 
amusements." Mr. Burchell returned her a compli- 
ment for her intentions ; but resigned her up to the 
chaplain adding, that he was to go that night five 
miles, being invited to a harvest supper. His refusal 
appeared to me a little extraordinary ; nor could I 
conceive how so sensible a girl as my youngest, could 
thus prefer a man of broken fortunes to one whose 
expectations were much greater. But as men are 
most capable of distinguishing merit in women, so the 
ladies often form the truest judgments of us. The 
two sexes seem placed as spies upon each other, and 
are furnished with different abilities, adapted for mu- 
tual inspection. 





CHAPTER IX. 

TWO LADIES OF GREAT DISTINCTION INTRODUCED. 

SUPERIOR FINERY EVER SEEMS TO CONFER SUPE- 
RIOR BREEDING. 

Mr. Burchell had scarcely taken leave, and So- 
phia consented to dance with the chaplain, when my 
little ones came running out to tell us, that the Squire 
was come with a crowd of company. Upon our re- 
turn in, we found our landlord, with a couple of un- 
der gentlemen and two young ladies richly dressed, 
whom he introduced as women of very great distinc- 
tion and fashion from town. We happened not to 
have chairs enough for the whole company ; but Mr. 
Thornhill immediately proposed, that every gentle- 
man should sit in a lady's lap. This I positively ob- 
jected to, notwithstanding a look of disapprobation 
from my wife. Moses was therefore dispatched to 
borrow a couple of chairs ; and as we were in want 
of ladies to make up a set at country dances, the two 
gentlemen went with him in quest of a couple of 
partners. Chairs and partners were soon provided. 
The gentlemen returned with my neighbor Flam- 
borough's rosy daughters, flaunting with red top- 
knots ; but an unlucky circumstance was not adverted 



56 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

to — though the Miss Flamboroughs were reckoned 
the very best dancers in the parish, and understood 
the jig and roundabout to perfection, yet they were 
totally unacquainted with country dances. This at 
first discomposed us ; however, after a little shoving 
and dragging, they at last went merrily on. Our mu- 
sic consisted of two fiddles, with a pipe and tabor. 
The moon shone bright. Mr. Thornhill and my eld- 
est daughter led up the ball, to the great delight of 
the spectators ; for the neighbors, hearing what was 
going forward, came flocking about us. My girl 
moved with so much grace and vivacity, that my wife 
could not avoid discovering the pride of her heart, by 
assuring me, that though the little chit did it so clev- 
erly, all the steps were stolen from herself. The 
ladies of the town strove hard to be equally easy, 
but without success. They swam, sprawled, lan- 
guished and frisked ; but all would not do : the gazers 
indeed owned that it was fine ; but neighbor Flam- 
borough observed, that Miss Livy's feet seemed to 
pat to the music as its echo. After the dance had 
continued about an hour, the two ladies, who were 
apprehensive of catching cold, moved to break up 
the ball. One of them, I thought, expressed her 
sentiments on this occasion in a very coarse manner, 
when she observed, that hy the living jingo she was 
all of a much of sweat. Upon our return to the 
house, we found a very elegant cold su23per, which 
Mr. Thornhill had ordered to be brought with him. 
The conversation at this time was more reserved than 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 57 

before. The two ladies threw my girls quite into the 
shade ; for they would talk of nothing but high-life 
and high-lived company ; with other fashionable top- 
ics, such as pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the musi- 
cal glasses. 'Tis true they once or twice mortified us 
sensibly by slipping out an oath; but that appeared 
to me as the surest symptom of their distinction 
(though I am since informed that swearing is per- 
fectly unfashionable). Their finery, however, threw 
a veil over any grossness in their conversation. My 
daughters seemed to .regard their superior accomplish- 
ments with envy; and what appeared amiss, was 
ascribed to tip-top quality breeding. But the conde- 
scension of the ladies was still superior to their other 
accomplishments. One of them observed, that had 
Miss Olivia seen a little more of the world, it would 
greatly improve her. To which the other added, 
that a single winter in town would make her little 
Sophia quite another thing. My wife warmly as- 
sented to both; adding, that there was nothing she 
more ardently desired than to give her girls a single 
winter's polishing. To this I could not help replying, 
that their breeding was already superior to their for- 
tune ; and that greater refinement would only serve 
to make their poverty ridiculous, and give them a 
taste for pleasures they had no right to possess. 
" And what pleasures," cried Mr. Thornhill, " do 
they not deserve to possess, who have so much in 
their power to bestow ? As for my part," continued 
he, " my fortune is pretty large ; love, liberty, and 



58 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

pleasure are my maxims ; but curse me if a settle- 
ment of half my estate could give my charming 
Olivia pleasure, it should be hers ; and the only favor 
I would ask in return would be to add myself to the 
benefit." I was not such a stranger to the world as 
to be ignorant that this was the fashionable cant to 
disguise the insolence of the basest proposal ; but I 
made an effort to suppress my resentment. *' Sir," 
cried I, "the family which you now condescend to 
favor with your company, has been bred with as nice 
a sense of honor as you. Any attempts to injure that, 
may be attended with very dangerous consequences. 
Honor, sir, is our only possession a.t present, and of 
that last treasure we must be particularly careful." 
I was soon sorry for the warmth with which I had 
spoken this, when the young gentleman, grasping my 
hand, swore he commended my spirit, though he dis- 
approved my suspicions. " As to your present hint," 
continued he, " I protest nothing was farther from 
my heart than such a thought. No, by all that 's 
tempting, the virtue that will stand a regular siege 
was never to my taste ; for all my amours are carried 
by a coup-de-main." 

The two ladies, who affected to be ignorant of the 
rest, seemed highly displeased with this last stroke of 
freedom, and began a very discreet and serious dia- 
logue upon virtue ; in this my wife, the chaplain; and 
I, soon joined ; and the Squire himself was at last 
brought to confess a sense of his sorrow for his 
former excesses. "We talked of the pleasures of 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 59 

temperance, and of the sunshine in the mind unpol- 
luted with guilt. I was so well pleased, that my 
little ones were kept up beyond the usual time, to be 
edified by so much good conversation. Mr. Thornhill 
even went beyond me, and demanded if I had any 
objection to giving prayers. I joyfully embraced the 
proposal ; and in this manner the night was passed 
in a most comfortable way, till at last the company 
began to think of returning. The ladies seemed very 
unwilling to part with my daughters, for whom they 
had conceived a particular affection, and joined in a 
request to have the pleasure of their company home. 
The Squire seconded the proposal, and my wife 
added her entreaties ; the girls too looked upon me 
as if they wished to go. In this perplexity I made 
two or three excuses, which my daughters as readily 
removed ; so that at last I was obliged to give a 
peremptory refusal ; for which we had nothing but 
sullen looks and short answers the whole day ensuing. 





CHAPTER X. 

THE FAMILY ENDEAVORS TO COPE WITH THEIR 

BETTERS. THE MISERIES OF THE POOR WHEN 

THEY ATTEMPT TO APPEAR ABOVE THEIR CIR- 
CUMSTANCES. 

I NOW began to find, that all my long and painful 
lectures upon temperance, simplicity, and content- 
ment, were entirely disregarded. The distinctions 
lately paid us by our betters awaked that pride 
which I had laid asleep, but not removed. Our win- 
dows, again, as formerly, were filled with washes for 
the neck and face. The sun was dreaded as an 
enemy to the skin without doors, and the fire as a 
spoiler of the complexion within. My wife observed 
that rising too early would hurt her daughters' eyes, 
that working after dinner would redden their noses, 
and she convinced me that the hands never looked so 
white as when they did nothing. Instead therefore 
of finishing George's shirts, we now had them new- 
modeling their old gauzes, or flourishing upon catgut. 
The poor Miss Flamboroughs, their former gay com- 
panions, were cast off as mean acquaintances, and the 
whole conversation ran upon high-life and high-lived 
company, with pictures, taste, Shakespeare, and the 
musical glasses. 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 61 

But we could have borne all this, had not a for- 
tune-telling gypsy come to raise us into perfect sub- 
limity. The tawny sibyl no sooner appeared, than 
my girls came running to me for a shilling a-piece to 
cross her hand with silver. To say the truth I was 
tired of being always wise, and could not help grati- 
fying their request, because I loved to see them 
happy. I gave each of them a shilling; though for 
the honor of the family it must be observed, that 
they never went without money themselves, as my 
wife always let them have a guinea each, to keep in 
their pockets, but with strict injunctions never to 
change it. After they had been closeted up with the 
fortune-teller for some time, I knew by their looks, 
upon their returning, that they had been promised 
something great. "Well, my girls, how have you 
sped? Tell me, Livy, has the fortune-teller given 
thee a pennyworth ? " "I protest, papa," says the 
girl, " I believe she deals with somebody that 's not 
right ; for she positively declared, that I am to be 
married to a Squire in less than a twelvemonth ! " 
" Well now Sophy, my child," said I, " and what sort 
of a husband are you to have ? " " Sir," replied she, 
" I am to have a Lord soon after my sister has mar- 
ried the Squire." " How," cried I, " is that all you 
are to have for your two shillings ? Only a Lord and 
a Squire for two shillings ! You fools, I could have 
promised you a Prince and a Nabob for half the 
money." 

This curiosity of theirs, however, was attended 



62 VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 

with very serious effects : we now began to think 
ourselves designed by the stars to something .exalted, 
and already anticipated our future grandeur. 

It has been a thousand times observed, and I must 
observe it once more, that the hours we pass with 
happy prospects in view, are more pleasing than 
those crowned with fruition. In the first case we 
cook the dish to our own appetite ! in the latter, nat- 
ure cooks it for us. It is impossible to repeat the 
train of agreeable reveries we called up for our en- 
tertainment. We looked upon our fortunes as once 
more rising ; and as the whole parish asserted that 
the Squire was in love with my daughter, she was 
actually so with him ; for they persuaded her into 
the passion. In this agreeable interval, my wife had 
the most lucky dreams in the world, which she took 
care to tell us every morning with great solemnity 
and exactness. It was one night a coffin and cross 
bones, the sign of an approaching wedding ; at an- 
other time she imagined her daughter's pockets filled 
with farthings, a certain sign of their being shortly 
stuffed with gold. The girls themselves had their 
omens. They felt strange kisses on their lips ; they 
saw rings in the candle, purses bound from the fire, 
and true love-knots lurked in the bottom of every 
tea-cup. 

Towards the end of the week we received a card 
from the town ladies ; in which, with their compli- 
ments, they hoped to see all our family at church the 
Sunday following. All Saturday morning I could 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. b6 

perceive, in consequence of this, my wife and daugh- 
ters in close conference together, and now and then 
glancing at me with looks that betrayed a latent plot. 
To be sincere, I had strong suspicions that some ab- 
surd proposal was preparing for appearing with 
splendor the next day. In the evening they began 
their operations in a very regular manner, and my 
wife undertook to conduct the siege. After tea, 
when I seemed in spirits, she began thus : " I fancy, 
Charles, my dear, we shall have a great deal of good 
company at our church to-morrow." " Perhaps we 
may, my dear," returned I, " though you need be 
under no uneasiness about that, you shall have a ser- 
mon whether there be or not." " That is what I ex- 
pect," returned she ; " but I think, my dear, we ought 
to appear there as decently as possible, for who 
knows what may happen ? " " Your precautions," 
replied I, " are highly commendable. A decent be- 
havior aiid appearance in church is what charms me. 
We should be devout and humble, cheerful and se- 
rene." " Yes," cried she, " I know that ; but I mean 
we should go there in as proper a manner as possible ; 
not altogether like the scrubs about us." " You are 
quite right, my dear," returned I, "and I was going 
to make the very same proposal. The proper man- 
ner of going is, to go there as early as possible, to 
have time for meditation before the service begins." 
" Phoo, Charles," interrupted she, '" all that is very 
true ; but not what I would be at. I mean, we 
should go there genteelly. You know the church is 



64 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

two miles off, and I protest I don't like to see my 
daughters trudging up to their pew all blowzed and 
red with walking, and looking for all the world as if 
they had been winners at a smock race. Now, my 
dear, my proposal is this : there are our two plow 
horses, the colt that has been in our family these nine 
years, and his companion Blackberry, that has 
scarcely done an earthly thing for this month past. 
They are both grown fat and lazy. Why should 
they not do something as well as we ? And let me 
tell you, when Moses has trimmed them a little, they 
will cut a very tolerable figure." 

To this proposal I objected, that walking would be 
twenty times more genteel than such a paltry con- 
veyance, as Blackberry was wall-eyed, and the colt 
wanted a tail : that they had never been broke to the 
rein, but had a hundred vicious tricks : and that we 
had but one saddle and pillion in the whole house. 
All these objections, however, were overruled; so 
that I was obliged to comply. The next morning I 
perceived them not a little busy in collecting such 
materials as might be necessary for the expedition ; 
but, as I found it would be a business of time, I 
walked on to the church before, and they promised 
speedily to follow. I waited near an hour in the 
reading desk for their arrival ; but not finding them 
come as expected, I was obliged to begin, and went 
through the service, not without some uneasiness at 
findinij them absent. This was increased when all 
was finished, and no appearance of the family. I 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 65 

therefore walked back by the horse-way, which was 
five miles round, though the foot-way was but two, 
and when got about half way home, perceived the 
procession marching slowly forwards towards the 
church ; my son, my wife, and the two little ones, ex- 
alted on one horse, and my two daughters upon the 
other. I demanded the cause of their delay ; but I 
soon found by their looks they had met with a thou- 
sand misfortunes on the road. The horses had at 
first refused to move from the door, till Mr. Burchell 
was kind enough to beat them forward for about two 
hundred yards with his cudgel. Next, the straps of 
my wife's pillion broke down, and they were obliged 
to stop to repair them before they could proceed. 
After that, one of the horses took it into his head to 
stand still, and neither blows nor entreaties could 
prevail with him to proceed. He was just recover- 
ing from his dismal situation when I found them ; 
but perceiving everything safe, I own their present 
mortification did not much displease me, as it would 
give many opportunities of future triumph, and teach 
my daughters more humility. 
5 





CHAPTER XI. 

THE FAMILY STILL RESOLVE TO HOLD UP THEIR 
HEADS. 

Michaelmas Eve happeoing on the next day, we 
were invited to burn nuts and play tricks at neighbor 
Flamborough's. Our late mortifications had hum- 
bled us a little, or it is probable we might have re- 
jected such an invitation with contempt : however, we 
suffered ourselves to be happy. Our honest neigh- 
bor's goose and dumplings were fine, and the lamb's 
wool, even in the opinion of my wife, who was a con- 
noisseur, was excellent. It is true, his manner of 
telling stories was not quite so well. They were 
very long, and very dull, and about himself and we 
had laughed at them ten times before ; however, we 
were kind enough to laugh at them once more. 

Mr. Burchell, who was of the party, was always 
fond of seeing some innocent amusement going for- 
ward, and set the boys and girls to blind man's buff. 
My wife too was persuaded to join in the diversion, 
and it gave me pleasure to think she was not yet too 
old. In the mean-time, my neighbor and I looked 
on, laughed at every feat, and praised our own dex- 
terity when we were young. Hot cockles succeeded 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 67 

next, questions and commands followed that, and last 
of all, they sat down to hunt the slipper. As every 
person may not be acquainted with this primeval pas- 
time, it may be necessary to observe, that the com- 
pany at this play plant themselves in a ring upon the 
ground, all except one who stands in the middle, 
whose business it is to catch a shoe, which the com- 
pany shove about under their hams from one to an- 
other, something like a weaver's shuttle. As it is 
impossible, in this case, for the lady who is up to face 
all the company at once, the great beauty of the play 
lies in hitting her a thump with the heel of the shoe 
on that side least capable of making a defence. It 
was in this manner that my eldest daughter was 
hemmed in, and thumped about, all blowzed, in 
spirits, and bawling for fair play, with a voice that 
might deafen a ballad-singer, when, confusion on con- 
fusion ! who should enter the room but our two great 
acquaintances from town. Lady Blarney and Miss 
Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs ! Description 
would but beggar, therefore it is unnecessary to de- 
cribe this new mortification. Death! To be seen 
by ladies of such high breeding in such vulgar atti- 
tudes ! Nothing better could ensue from such a vul- 
gar play of Mr. Flamborough's proposing. We 
seemed struck to the ground for some time, as if act- 
ually petrified with amazement. 

The two ladies had been at our house to see us, 
and finding us from home, came after us hither, as 
they were uneasy to know what accident could have 



68 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

kept us from church the day before. Olivia under- 
took to be our prolocutor, and delivered the whole 
in a summary way, only saying, " We were thrown 
from our horses." At which account the ladies were 
greatly concerned ; but being told the family received 
no hurt, they were extremely glad : but being in- 
formed that we were almost killed by the fright, they 
were vastly sorry : but hearing that we had a very 
good night, they were extremely glad again. Noth- 
ing could exceed their complaisance to my daughters ; 
their professions the last evening were warm, but now 
they were ardent. They protested a desire of hav- 
ing a more lasting acquaintance. Lady Blarney was 
particularly attached to Olivia; Miss Carolina Wil- 
helmina Amelia Skeggs (I love to give the whole 
n^ine) took a greater fancy to her sister. They sup- 
ported the conversation between themselves, while my 
daughters sat silent, admiring their exalted breed- 
ing. But as every reader, however beggarly him- 
self, is fond of high-lived dialogues, with anecdotes of 
Lords, Ladies, and Knights of the Garter, I must beg 
leave to give him the concluding part of the present 
conversation. 

"All that I know of the matter," cried Miss Skeggs, 
" is this, that it may be true, or it may not be true : 
but this I can assure your Ladyship, that the rout 
was in amaze ; his Lordship turned all manner of 
colors, my Lady fell into a swoon, but Sir Tomkyn, 
drawing his sword, swore he was her's to the last drop 
of his blood." 



YICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 69 

" Well," replied our Peeress, "■' this I can say, that 
the Duchess never told me a syllable of the matter, 
and I believe her Grace would keep nothing a secret 
from me. This you may depend upon as a fact, that 
the next day my Lord Duke cried out three times to 
his valet de chambre, Jernigan, Jernigan, Jernigan, 
bring me my garters," 

But previously I should have mentioned the very, 
impolite behavior of Mr. Burchell, who, during this 
discourse, sat with his face turned to the fire, and at 
the conclusion of every sentence would cry out 
fudge ;^ an expression which displeased us all, and 
in some measure damped the rising spirit of the con- 
versation. 

" Besides, my dear Skeggs," continued our Peeress, 
" there is nothing of this in the copy of verses that 
Dr. Burdock made upon the occasion." — Fudge! 

" I am surprised at that," cried Miss Skeggs ; " for 
he seldom leaves anything out, as he writes only for 
his own amusement. But can your Ladyship favor 
me with a sight of them ? " — Fudge 1 

" My dear creature," replied our Peeress, " do you 
think I carry such things about me ? Though they 
are very fine to be sure, and I think myself some- 
thing of a judge ; at least I know what pleases my- 
self. Indeed I was ever an admirer of all Dr. Bur- 
dock's little pieces ; for, except what he does, and our 

1 An expression of the utmost contempt, usually bestowed on 
absurd or lying talkers. It probably was introduced in Gold- 
smith's time, and is now common in colloquial language. — Todd. 



70 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

dear Countess at Hanover-square, there 's nothing 
comes put but the most lowest stuff in nature ; not a 
bit of high life among them." — Fudge ! 

"Your Ladyship should except," says t'other, 
" your own things in the Lady's Magazine. I hope 
you '11 say there 's nothing low-lived there ? But I 
suppose we are to have no more from that quarter ? " 

— Fudge I 

" Why, my dear," says the Lady, " you know my 
reader and companion has left me, to be married to 
Captain Roach, and as my poor eyes won't suffer me 
to write myself, I have been for some time looking 
out for another. A proper person is no easy matter 
to find, and to be sure thirty pounds a year is a small 
stipend for a well-bred girl of character, that can 
read, write, and behave in company : as for the chits 
about town, there is no bearing them about one." — 
Fudge ! 

" That I know," cried Miss Skeggs, " by experi- 
ence. For of the three companions I had this last 
half-year one of them refused to do plain work an 
hour in a day ; another thought twenty-five guineas 
a year too small a salary, and I was obliged to send 
away the third, because I suspected an intrigue with 
the chaplain. Virtue, my dear Lady Blarney, virtue 
is worth any price ; but where is that to be found ? '* 

— Fudge ! 

My wife had been for a long time all attention to 
this discourse ; but was particularly struck with the 
latter part of it. Thirty pounds and twenty -five guin- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 71 

eas a year, made fifty-six pounds five shillings Eng- 
lish money, all which was in a manner going a-beg- 
ging, and might easily be secured in the family. She 
for a moment sudied my looks for approbation ; and, 
to own a truth, I was of opinion that two such places 
would fit our two daughters exactly. Besides, if the 
Squire had any real affection for my eldest daughter, 
this would be the way to make her every way qual- 
ified for her fortune. My wife therefore was re- 
solved that we should not be deprived of such advan- 
tages for want of assurance, and undertook to harangue 
for the family. '' I hope," cried she, " your Ladyships 
will pardon my present presumption. It is true, we 
have no right to pretend to such favors ; but yet it is 
natural for me to wish putting my children forward 
in the world. And I will be bold to say my two 
girls have had a pretty good education and capacity, 
at least the country can't show better. They can 
read, write, and cast accounts ; they understand their 
needle, broadstitch, cross and change, and all man- 
ner of plain work ; they can pink, point, and frill, 
and know something of music ; they can do up small 
clothes ; work upon catgut ! my eldest can cut paper, 
and my youngest has a very pretty manner of telling 
fortunes upon the cards." — Fudge / 

When she had delivered this pretty piece of elo- 
quence, the two ladies looked at each other a few min- 
utes in silence with an air of doubt and importance. 
At last Miss Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia Skeggs con- 
descended to observe, that the young ladies, from the 



72 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

opinion she could form of them from so slight an ac- 
quaintance, seemed very fit for such employments : 
" But a thing of this kind, madam," cried she, address- 
ing my spouse, "requires a thorough examination 
into characters, and a more perfect knowledge of each 
other. Not, madam," continued she, " that I in the 
least suspect the young ladies' virtue, prudence, and 
discretion ; but there is a form in those things, 
madam, there is a form." 

My wife approved her suspicions very much, ob- 
serving that" she was very apt to be suspicious her- 
self; but referred her to all the neighbors for a char- 
acter : but this our Peeress declined as unnecessary, 
alleging that her cousin Thornhill's recommendation 
would be sufficient, and upon this we rested our peti- 
tion. 





CHAPTER XIL 

FORTUNE SEEMS RESOLVED TO HUMBLE THE FAMILY 

OF WAKEFIELD. MORTIFICATIONS ARE OFTEN 

MORE PAINFUL THAN REAL CALAMITIES. 

When we were returned home, the night was ded- 
icated to schemes of future conquest. Deborah ex- 
erted much sagacity in conjecturing which of the two 
girls was likely to have the best place, and most op- 
portunities of seeing good company. The only 
obstacle to our preferment was in obtaining the 
Squire's recommendation, but he had already shown 
us too many instances of his friendship to doubt of it 
now. Even in bed my wife kept up the usual theme ; 
" "Well, faith, my dear Charles, between ourselves, I 
think we have made an excellent day's work of it." 
" Pretty well," cried I, not knowing what to say. 
" What ! only pretty well ! " returned she. " I 
think it is very well. Suppose the girls should come 
to make acquaintances of taste in town ! This I am 
assured of, that London is the only place in the world 
for all manner of husbands. Besides, my dear, 
stranger things happen every day ; and as ladies of 
quality are so taken with my daughters, what will not 
men of quality be ? Entre nous, I protest I like my 



74 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

Lady Blarney vastly, so very obliging. However, 
Miss Carolina Wilhemina Amelia Skeggs has my 
warm heart. But yet, when they came to talk of 
places in town, you saw at once how I nailed them. 
Tell me, my dear, don't you think I did for my chil- 
dren there ? " " Ay," returned I, not knowing well 
what to think of the matter. " Heaven grant they 
may be both the better for it this day three mouths ! " 
This was one of those observations I usually made to 
impress my wife with an opinion of my sagacity ; for 
if the girls succeeded, then it was a pious wish ful- 
filled ; but if anything unfortunate ensued then it 
might be looked upon as a prophecy. All this con- 
versation, however, was only preparatory to another 
scheme, and indeed I dreaded as much. This was 
nothing less than that, as we were now to hold up 
our heads a little higher in the world, it would be 
proper to sell the colt, which was grown old, at a 
neighboring fair, and buy us a horse that would carry 
single or double upon an occasion, and make a pretty 
appearance at church, or upon a visit. This at first 
I opposed stoutly ; but it was as stoutly defended. 
However, as I weakened, my antagonists gained 
strength, till at last it was resolved to part with him. 
As the fair happened on the following day, I had 
intentions of going myself; but my wife persuaded 
me that I had got a cold, and nothing could prevail 
upon her to permit me from home. " No, my dear," 
said she, " our son Moses is a discreet boy, and can 
buy and sell to a very good advantage ; you know all 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD; 75 

our great bargains are of his purchasing. He always 
stands out and higgles, and actually tires them till he 
gets a bargain." 

As I had some opinion of my son's prudence, I 
was willing enough to intrust him with his commis- 
sion ; and the next morning I perceived his sisters 
mighty busy in fitting out Moses for the fair ; trim- 
ming his hair, brushing his buckles, and cocking his 
hat with pins. The business of the toilet being over, 
we had at last the satisfaction of seeing him mounted 
upon the colt, with a deal box before him to bring 
home groceries in. He had on a coat made of that 
cloth they called thunder and lightning, which, though 
grown too short, was much too good to be thrown 
away. His waistcoat was of gosling green, and his 
sisters had tied his hair with a broad black riband. 
We all followed him several paces from the door, 
bawling after him good luck, good hick, till we could 
see him no longer. 

He was scarcely gone, when Mr. Thornhill's butler 
came to congratulate us upon our good fortune, say- 
ing, that he overheard his young master mention our 
names with great commendation. 

Good fortune seemed resolved not to come alone. 
Another footman from the same family followed, with 
a card for my daughters, importing that the two 
ladies had received such pleasing accounts from Mr. 
Thornhill of us all, that, after a few previous inquir- 
ies, they hoped to be perfectly satisfied. " Ay," cried 
my wife, " I now see it is no easy matter to g^t into 



76 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

the families of the great ; but when one once gets in, 
then, as Moses says, one may go to sleep." To this 
piece of humor, for she intended it for wit, my daugh- 
ters assented with a loud laugh of pleasure. In short, 
such was her satisfaction at this message, that she 
actually put her hand in her pocket, and gave the 
messenger sevenpence halfpenny. 

This was to be our visiting day. The next that 
came was Mr. Burchell, who had been at the fair. 
He brought my little ones a pennyworth of ginger- 
bread each, which my wife undertook to keep for 
them, and give them by letters at a time. He brought 
my daughters also a couple of boxes, in which they 
might keep wafers, snufF, patches, or even money, 
when they got it. My wife was usually fond of a 
weasel-skin purse, as being the most lucky ; but this 
by the bye. We had still a regard for Mr. Burchell, 
though his late rude behavior was in some measure 
displeasing ; nor could we now avoid communicating 
our happiness to him, and asking his advice ; although 
we seldom followed advice, we were all ready enough 
to ask it. When he read the note from the two 
ladies, he shook his head, and observed, that an affair 
of this sort demanded the utmost circumspection. 
This air of diffidence highly displeased my wife. " I 
never doubted, sir," cried she, "your readiness to be 
against my daughters and me. You have more cir- 
cumspection than is wanted. However, I fancy when 
we come to ask advice, we will apply to persons who 
seem to have made use of it themselves." " Whatever 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 77 

my own conduct may have been, madam," replied he, 
" is not the present question ; though as I have made 
no use of advice myself, I should in conscience give it 
to those that will." As I was apprehensive this answer 
might draw on a repartee, making up by abuse what 
it wanted in wit, I changed the subject, by seeming 
to wonder what could keep our son so long at the 
fair, as it was now almost nightfall. " Never mind 
our son," cried my wife, " depend upon it he knows 
what he is about. I '11 warrant we '11 never see him 
sell his hen of a rainy day. I have seen him buy 
such bargains as would amaze one. I '11 tell you a 
good story about that, that will make you split your 
sides with laughing.^ But as I live, yonder comes 
Moses, without a horse and the box at his back." 

As she spoke Moses came slowly on foot, and 
sweating under the deal box, which he had strapped 
round his shoulders like a pedler. " Welcome, wel- 
come, Moses ; well, my boy, what have you brought 
us from the fair ? " "I have brought you myself," 
cried Moses, with a sly look, and resting the box on 
the dresser. " Ah, Moses," cried my wife, " that we 
know ; but where is the horse ? " "I have sold him," 
cried Moses, " for three pounds five shillings and two- 
pence." " Well done, my good boy," returned she ; 
" I knew you would touch them off. Between our- 

1 This phrase, used as illustrative of the homeliness of the 
speaker, was one of those untruly attributed as common to the 
poet himself, by the retailers of anecdote ; who in this instance, 
as in others, have turned his humor against himself. 



78 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

selves, three pounds five shillings and twopence is no 
bad day's work. Come let us have it then." " I 
have brought back no money," cried Moses again. 
" I have laid it all out on a bargain, and here it is," 
pulling out a bundle from his breast : " here they 
are ; a gross of green spectacles, with silver rims and 
shagreen cases." " A gross of green spectacles ! " 
repeated my wife in a faint voice. " And you have 
parted with the colt, and brought us back nothing 
but a gross of green paltry spectacles ! " " Dear 
mother," cried the boy, " why won't you listen to 
reason ? I had them a dead bargain, or I should not 
have bought them. The silver rims alone will sell 
for double the money." " A fig for the silver rims," 
cried my wife in a passion : " I dare swear they won't 
sell for above half the money at the rate of broken 
silver, five shillings an ounce." " You need be under 
no uneasiness," cried I, " about selling the rims, for 
they are not worth sixpence ; for I perceive they are 
only copper varnished over." " What," cried my 
wife, " not silver ! the rims not silver ! " " No," cried 
I, "no more silver than your saucepan." "And so," 
returned she, " we have parted with the colt, and have 
only got a gross of green spectacles, with copper rims 
and shagreen cases ! A murrain take such trumpery. 
The blockhead has been imposed upon, and should 
have known his company better." " There, my 
dear," cried I, " you are wrong, he should not have 
known them at all." " Marry, hang the idiot," re- 
turned she, " to brinof me such stuff; if I had them I 



\ 



YICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 79 

would throw them in the fire/' " Tliere again you 
are wrong, my dear," cried I ; " for though they be 
copper, we will keep them by us, as copper spectacles, 
you know, are better than nothing." 

By this time the unfortunate Moses was unde- 
ceived. He now saw that he had been imposed upon 
by a prowling sharper, who observing his figure, had 
marked him for an easy prey. I therefore asked the 
circumstance of his deception. He sold the horse, it 
seems, and walked the fair in search of another. A 
reverend looking man brought him to a tent, under a 
pretence of having one to sell. " Here," continued 
Moses, " we met another man, very well dressed, who 
desired to borrow twenty pounds upon these, saying 
that he wanted money, and would dispose of them for 
a third of their value. The first gentleman, who pre- 
tended to be my friend, whispered me to buy them, 
and cautioned me not to let so good an offer pass. I 
sent for Mr. Flamborough, and they talked him up as 
finely as they did me, and so at last we were per- 
suaded to buy the two gross betwieen us." 





CHAPTER XIII. 

MR. BURCHELL IS FOUND TO BE AN ENEMY; FOR HE 
HAS THE CONFIDENCE TO GIVE DISAGREEABLE 
ADVICE. 

Our family had now made several attempts to be 
fine ; but some unforeseen disaster demolished each as 
soon as projected. I endeavored to take the advan- 
tage of every disappointment, to improve their good 
sense in proportion as they were frustrated in ambi- 
tion. " You see, my children," cried I, " how little is 
to be got by attempts to impose upon the world, in 
coping with our betters. Such as are poor, and will 
associate with none but the rich, are hated by those 
they avoid, and despised by those they follow. Un- 
equal combinations are always disadvantageous to the 
weaker side : the rich having the pleasure, and the 
poor the inconveniences that result from them. But 
come, Dick, my boy, and repeat the fable that you 
were reading to-day, for the good of the company." 

" Once upon a time," cried the child, " a Giant and 
a Dwarf were friends and kept together. They made 
a bargain that they would never forsake each other, 
but go seek adventures. The first battle they fought 
was with two Saracens, and the Dwarf, who was very 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 81 

courageous, dealt one of the champions a most angry- 
blow. It did the Saracen very little injury, who, lift- 
ing up his sword, fairly struck off the poor Dwarf's 
arm. He was now in a woeful plight ; but the Giant 
coming to his assistance, in a short time left the two 
Saracens dead on the plain, and the Dwarf cut off the 
dead man's head out of spite. They then traveled on 
to another adventure. This was against three bloody- 
minded Satyrs, who were carrying away a damsel in 
distress. The Dwarf was not quite so fierce now as 
before ; but for all that struck the first blow, which 
was returned by another, that knocked out his eye ; 
but the giant was soon up with them, and had they 
not fled, would certainly have killed them every one. 
They were all very joyful for this victory, and the 
damsel who was relieved fell in love with the Giant, 
and married him. They now traveled far, and farther 
than I can tell, till they met with a company of rob- 
bers. The Giant, for the first time, was foremost 
now ; but the dwarf was not far behind. The battle 
was stout and long. Wherever the Giant came, all 
fell before him ; but the Dwarf had like to have been 
killed more than once. At last the victory declared 
for the two adventurers ; but the Dwarf lost his leg. 
The Dwarf was now without an arm, a leg, and an 
eye, while the Giant was without a single wound. 
Upon which he cried out to his little companion, my 
little hero, this is glorious sport ! let us get one vic- 
tory more, and then we shall have honor forever. 
No, cries the dwarf, who was by this time grown 



82 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. ^ 

wiser, no, I declare off; I '11 jSght no more : for I find 
in every battle that you get all the honor and rewards, 
but all the blows fall upon me." 

I was going to moralize this fable, when our atten- 
tion was called off to a warm dispute between my 
wife and Mr. Burchell, upon my daughters' intended 
expedition to town. My wife very strenuously in- 
sisted upon the advantages that would result from it ; 
Mr. Burchell, on the contrary, dissuaded her with 
great ardor, and I stood neuter. His present dissua- 
sions seemed but the second part of those which were 
received with so ill a grace in the morning. The dis- 
pute grew high, while poor Deborah, instead of rea- 
soning stronger, talked louder, and at last was obliged 
to take shelter fi^om a defeat in clamor. The conclu- 
sion of her harangue, however, was highly displeasing 
to us all : she knew, she said, of some who had their 
own secret reasons for what they advised ; but, for 
her part, she wished such to stay from her house for 
the future. " Madam," cried Burchell, with looks 
of great composure, which tended to inflame her more, 
" as for secret reasons, you are right ; I have secret 
reasons, which I forbear to mention, because you are 
not able to answer those of which I make no secret : 
but I find my visits here are become troublesome ; 
I '11 take my leave therefore now, and perhaps come 
once more to take a final farewell, when I am quitting 
the country." Thus saying he took up his hat, nor 
could the attempts of Sophia, whose looks seemed to 
upbraid his precipitancy, prevent his going. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 83 

When gone, we all regarded each other for some 
minutes with confusion. My wife, who knew herself 
to be the cause, strove to hide her concern with a 
forced smile, and an air of assurance, which I was 
willing to reprove : " How, woman," cried I to her, 
" is it thus we treat strangers ? Is it thus we return 
their kindness ? Be assured, my dear, that these were 
the harshest words, and to me the most un pleasing 
that ever escaped your lips ! " " Why would he pro- 
voke me, then ? " replied she ; " but I know the mo- 
tives of his advice perfectly well. He would prevent 
my girls from going to town, that he may have the 
pleasure of my youngest daughter's company here at 
home. But whatever happens, she shall choose bet- 
ter company than such low-lived fellows as he." 
" Low-lived, my dear, do you call him ? " cried I ; " it 
is very possible we may mistake this man's character, 
for he seems upon some occasions the most finished 
gentleman I ever knew. Tell me, Sophia, my girl, 
has he ever given you any secret instances of his at- 
tachment ? " " His conversation with me, sir," replied 
my daughter, " has ever been sensible, modest, and 
pleasing. As to aught else, no, never. Once, indeed, 
I remember to have heard him say, he never knew a 
woman who could find merit in a man that seemed 
poor." " Such, my dear," cried I, " is the common 
cant of all the unfortunate or idle. But I hope you 
have been taught to judge properly of such men, and 
that it would be even madness to expect happiness 
from one who has been so very bad an economist of 



84 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

his own. Your mother and I have now better pros- 
pects for you. The next winter, which you will prob- 
ably spend in town, will give you opportunities of 
making a more prudent choice." 

What Sophia's reflections were upon this occasion 
I can't pretend to determine ; but I was not displeased 
at the bottom, that we were rid of a guest from whom 
I had much to fear. Our breach of hospitality went 
to my conscience a little ; but I quickly silenced that 
monitor by two or three specious reasons, which 
served to satisfy and reconcile me to myself. The 
pain which conscience gives the man who has already 
done wrong, is soon got over. Conscience is a cow- 
ard, and those faults it has not strength enough to 
prevent, it seldom has justice enough to accuse. 





CHAPTER XIV. 

FRESH MORTIFICATIONS, OR A DEMONSTRATION 
THAT SEEMING CALAMITIES MAT BE REAL BLESS- 
INGS. 

The journey of my daughters to town was now 
resolved upon, Mr. Thornhill having kindly promised 
to inspect their conduct himself, and inform us by 
letter of their behavior. But it was thought indis- 
pensably necessary that their appearance should 
equal the greatness of their expectations, which 
could not be done without expense. We debated 
therefore in full council what were the easiest meth- 
ods of raising money, or, more properly speaking, 
what we could most conveniently sell. The deliber- 
ation was soon finished ; it was found that our re- 
maining horse was utterly useless for the plow, with- 
out his companion, and equally unfit for the road, as 
wanting an eye ; it was therefore determined that 
we should dispose of him for the purposes above 
mentioned, at the neighboring fair, and, to prevent 
imposition, that I should go with him myself. 
Though this was one of the first mercantile transac- 
tions of my life, yet I had no doubt about acquitting 
myself with reputation. The opinion a man forms 



86 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

of his own prudence is measured by that of the com- 
pany he keeps ; and as mine was mostly in the family 
way, I had conceived no unfavorable sentiments of 
my worldly wisdom. My wife, however, next morn- 
ing, at parting, after I had got some paces from the 
door, called me back, to advise me, in a whisper, to 
have all my eyes about me. 

I had, in the usual forms, when I came to the fair, 
put my horse through all his paces ; but for some 
time had no bidders. At last a chapman approached, 
and after he had for a good while examined the 
horse round, finding him blind of one eye, he would 
have nothing to say to him : a second came up, but 
observing he had a spavin, declared he would not 
take him for the driving home : a third perceived he 
had a windgall, and would bid no money : a fourth 
knew by his eye that he had the botts ; a fifth won- 
dered what the plague I could do at the fair with a 
blind, spavined, galled hack, that was only fit to be 
cut up for a dog-kennel. By this time I began to 
have a most hearty contempt for the poor animal my- 
self, and was almost ashamed at the approach of 
every customer ; for though I did not entirely believe 
all the fellows told me, yet I reflected that the num- 
ber of witnesses was a strong presumption they were 
right ; and St. Gregory, upon Good Works, professes 
himself to be of the same opinion. 

I was in this mortifying situation, when a brother 
clergyman, an old acquaintance, who had also busi- 
ness at the fair, came up, and shaking me by the 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 87 

hand, proposed adjourning to a public-house, and tak- 
ing a glass of whatever we could get. I readily- 
closed with the offer, and entering an ale-house, we 
were shown into a little back room, where there was 
only a venerable old man, who sat wholly intent over 
a large book, which he was reading. I never in my 
life saw a figure that prepossessed me more favora- 
bly. His locks of silver gray venerably shaded his 
temples, and his green old age seemed to be the re- 
sult of health and benevolence. However, his pres- 
ence did not interrupt our conversation; my friend 
and I discoursed on the various turns of fortune we 
had met; the Whistonian controversy, my last 
phamphlet, the arch-deacon's reply, and the hard 
measure that was dealt me. But our attention was 
in a short time taken off by the appearance of a 
youth, who, entering the room, respectfully said 
something softly to the old stranger. " Make no 
apologies, my child," said the old man, " to do good 
is a duty we owe to all our fellow-creatures ; take 
this, I wish it were more ; but five pounds will re- 
lieve your distress, and you are welcome." The 
modest youth shed tears of gratitude, and yet his 
welcome was scarcely equal to mine. I could have 
hugged the good old man in my arms, his benevo- 
lence pleased me so. He continued to read, and we 
resumed our conversation, until my companion, after 
some time, recollecting that he had some business to 
transact in the fair, promised to be soon back ; add- 
ing, that he always desired to have as much of Dr. 



88 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

Primrose's company as possible. The old gentleman 
hearing my name mentioned, seemed to look at me 
with attention for some time, and when my friend 
was gone, most respectfully demanded if I was any 
way related to the great Primrose, that courageous 
monogamist, who had been the bulwark of the 
church. Never did my heart feel sincerer rapture 
than at that moment. " Sir," cried I, " the applause 
of so good a man as I am sure you are, adds to that 
happiness in my breast which your benevolence has 
already excited. You behold before you, sir, that 
Dr. Primrose, the monogamist, whom you have been 
pleased to call great. You here see that unfortunate 
divine, who has so long, and it would ill become me 
to say, successfully, fought against the deuterogamy 
of the age." " Sir," cried the stranger, struck with 
awe, " I fear I have been too familiar ; but you '11 
forgive my curiosity, sir : I beg pardon." " Sir," 
cried I, grasping his hand, " you are so far from dis- 
pleasing me by your familiarity, that I must beg 
you '11 accept my friendship, as you already have my 
esteem." " Then with gratitude I accept the offer," 
cried he, squeezing me by the hand, " thou glorious 
pillar of unshaken orthodoxy ! and do I behold " — 
I here interrupted what he was going to say ; for 
though, as an author, I could digest no small share 
of flattery, yet now my modesty would permit no 
more. However, no lovers in romance ever cemented 
a more instantaneous friendship. We talked upon 
several subjects : at first I thought he seemed rather 



VICAE OF WAKEriELD. 89 

devout than learned, and began to think he despised 
all human doctrines as dross. Yet this no way les- 
sened him in my esteem ; for I had for some time 
begun privately to harbor such an opinion myself. I 
therefore took occasion to observe, that the world in 
general began to be blamably indifferent as to doc- 
trinal matters, and followed human speculations too 
much. " Ay, sir," replied he, as if he had re- 
served all his learning to that moment, "Ay, sir, 
the world is in its dotage, and yet the cosmogony or 
creation of the world has puzzled philosophers of all 
ages. What a medley of opinions have they not 
broached upon the creation of the world ! Sancho- 
niathon, Manetho, Berosus, and Ocellus Lucanus, 
have all attempted it in vain. The latter has these 
words, Anarchon ara hai alelutaion to pan, which im- 
ply that all things have neither beginning nor end. 
Manetho also, who lived about the time of Nebu- 
chadon-Asser, — 'Asser being a Syriac word usually 
applied as a surname to the kings of that country, 
as Teglat Phael-Asser, Nabon- Asser, — he, I say, 
formed a conjecture equally absurd ; for, as we usu- 
ally say, ek to hiUion Tauhernetes, which implies that 
books will never teach the world ; so he attempted 
to investigate — But, sir, I ask pardon, I am stray- 
ing from the question." That he actually was ; nor 
could I for my life see how the creation of the 
world had anything to do with the business I was 
talking of; but it was sufficient to show me that he 
was a man of letters, and I now reverenced him the 



90 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

more. I was resolved therefore to bring him to the 
touchstone ; but he was too mild and too gentle to 
contend for victory. Whenever I made an observa- 
tion that looked like a challenge to controversy, he 
would smile, shake his head, and say nothing ; by 
which, I understood he could say much, if he thought 
projDcr. The subject therefore insensibly changed 
from the business of antiquity to that which brought 
us both to the fair : mine, I told him, was to sell a 
horse, and very luckily indeed, his was to buy one 
for one of his tenants. My horse was soon pro- 
duced, and in fine we struck a bargain. Nothing 
now remained but to pay me, and he accordingly 
pulled out a thirty pound note, and bid me change it. 
Not being in a capacity of complying with this de- 
mand, he ordered his footman to be called up, who 
made his appearance in a very genteel livery. " Here, 
Abraham," cried he, " go and get gold for this ; you'll 
do it at neighbor Jackson's or anywhere." While the 
fellow was gone, he entertained me with a pathetic 
harangue on the great scarcity of silver, which I un- 
dertook to improve, by deploring also the great 
scarcity of gold ; so that by the time Abraham re- 
turned, we had both agreed that money was never 
so hard to be come at as now. Abraham returned 
to inform us, that he had been over the whole fair, 
and could not get change, though he had offered half 
a crown for doing it. This was a very great disap- 
pointment to us all ; but the old gentleman, having 
paused a little, asked me if I knew one Solomon 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 91 

Flamborough in my part of the country. Upon re- 
plying that he was my next-door neighbor ; " If that 
be the case then," returned he, " I believe we shall 
deal. You shall have a draft upon him, payable at 
sight ; and let me tell you, he is as warm a man as 
any within five miles round him. Honest Solomon 
and I have been acquainted many years together. I 
remember I always beat him at three jumps ; but he 
could hop on one leg farther than I." A draft upon 
my neighbor was to me the same as money ; for I 
was sufficiently convinced of his ability. The draft 
was signed, and put into my hands, and Mr. Jenkin- 
son, the old gentleman, his man Abraham, and my 
horse, old Blackberry, trotted off very well pleased 
with each other. 

After a short interval, being left to reflection, I 
began to recollect that I had done wrong in taking a 
draft from a stranger, and so prudently resolved upon 
following the purchaser, and having back my horse. 
But this was now too late : I therefore made directly 
homewards, resolving to get the draft changed into 
money at my friend's as fast as possible. I found my 
honest neighbor smoking his pipe at his own door, 
and informing him that I had a small bill upon him, 
he read it twice over. " You can read the name, I 
suppose," cried I, " Ephraim Jenkinson." " Yes," 
returned he, " the name is written plain enough, and 
I know the gentleman too, the greatest rascal under 
the canopy of heaven. This is the very same rogue 
who sold us the spectacles. Was he not a venerable 
looking man, with great hair, and no flaps to his 



92 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

pocket-holes? And did he not talk a long string 
of learning about Greek, and cosmogony, and the 
world ? " To this I replied with a groan. " Ay," 
continued he, " he has but that one piece of learning 
in the world, and he always talks it away whenever 
he finds a scholar in the company ; but I know the 
rogue, and will catch him yet." 

Though I was already sufficiently mortified, my 
greatest struggle was to come, in facing my wife and 
daughters. No truant was ever more afraid of re- 
turning to school, there to behold the master's visage, 
than I was of going home. I was determined, how- 
ever, to anticipate their fury, by first falling into a 
passion myself. 

But alas ! upon entering, I found the family no 
way disposed for battle. My wife and girls were all 
in tears, Mr. Thornhill having been there that day to 
inform them that their journey to town was entirely 
over. The two ladies having he^v^d reports of us 
from some malicious person about us, were that day 
set out for London. He could neither discover the 
tendency, nor the author of these ; but whatever they 
might be, or whoever might have broached them, he 
continued to assure our family of his friendship and 
protection. I found, therefore, that they bore my 
disappointment with great resignation, as it was 
eclipsed in the greatness of their own. But what 
perplexed us most, was to think who could be so 
base as to asperse the character of a family so harm- 
less as ours, too humble to excite envy, and too in- 
offensive to create disgust. 




CHAPTER XV. 

ALL MR. BURCHELL'S VILLAINY AT ONCE DE- 
TECTED. THE FOLLY OF BEING OVER WISE. 

That evening, and a part of the following day, was 
employed in fruitless attempts to discover our ene- 
mies : scarcely a family in the neighborhood but in- 
curred our suspicions, and each of us had reasons for 
our opinions best known to ourselves. As we were 
in this perplexity, one of our little boys, who had 
been playing abroad, brought in a letter-case, which 
he found on the green. It was quickly known to be- 
long to Mr. Burchell, with whom it had been seen, 
and, upon examination, contained some hints upon 
different subjects ; but what particularly engaged our 
attention was a sealed note, superscribed, The copy of 
a letter to he sent to the two ladies at Thornhill Castle. 
It instantly occurred that he was the base informer, 
and we deliberated whether the note should not be 
broke open. I was against it ; but Sophia, who said 
she was sure that of all men he would be the last to 
be guilty of so much baseness, insisted upon its being 
read. In this she was seconded by the rest of the 
family, and at their joint solicitation I read as fol- 
lows : 



94 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

" Ladies : — The bearer will sufficiently satisfy 
you as to the person from whom this comes : one at 
least the friend of innocence, and ready to prevent its 
being seduced. I am informed for a truth, that you 
have some intention of bringing two young ladies to 
town, whom I have some knowledge of, under the 
character of companions. As I would neither have 
simplicity imposed upon, nor .virtue contaminated, I 
must offer it as my opinion, that the impropriety of 
such a step will be attended with dangerous conse- 
quences. It has never been my way to treat the in- 
famous or the lewd with severity ; nor should 1 now 
have taken this method of explaining myself, or re- 
proving folly, did it not aim at guilt. Take therefore 
the admonition of a friend, and seriously reflect on 
the consequences of introducing infamy and vice into 
retreats, where peace and innocence have hitherto 
resided." 

Our doubts were now at an end. There seemed 
indeed something applicable to both sides in this 
letter, and its censures might as well be referred to 
those to whom it was written, as to us ; but the ma- 
licious meaning was obvious, and we went no farther. 
My wife had scarcely patience to hear me to the end, 
but railed at the writer with unrestrained resentment. 
Olivia was equally severe, and Sophia seemed per- 
fectly amazed at his baseness. As for my part, it 
appeared to me one of the vilest instances of unpro- 
voked ingratitude I had met with; nor could I ac- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 95 

count for it in any other manner than by imputing it 
to his desire of detaining my youngest daughter in 
the country, to have the more frequent opportunities of 
an interview. In this manner we all sat ruminating 
upon schemes of vengeance, when the other little boy 
came running in to tell us that Mr. Burchell was ap- 
proaching at the other end of the field. It is easier 
to conceive than describe the complicated sensations 
which are felt from the pain of a recent injury, and 
the pleasure of an approaching vengeance. Though 
our intentions were only to upbraid him with his in- 
gratitude, yet it was resolved to do it in a manner 
that would be perfectly cutting. For this purpose we 
agreed to meet him with our usual smiles ; to chat in 
the beginning with more than ordinary kindness ; to 
amuse him a little ; and then, in the midst of the flat- 
tering calm, to burst upon him like an earthquake, 
and overwhelm him with a sense of his own baseness. 
This being resolved upon, my wife undertook to man- 
age the business herself, as she really had some tal- 
ents for such an undertaking. We saw him approach ; 
he entered, drew a chair, and sat down. " A fine 
day, Mr. Burchell." "A very fine day. Doctor; 
though I fancy we shall have some rain by the shoot- 
ing of my corns." " The shooting of your horns ! " 
cried my wife in a loud fit of laughter, and then asked 
pardon for being fond of a joke. " Dear madam," 
replied he, " I pardon you with all my heart, for I 
protest I should not have thought it a joke had you 
not told me." " Perhaps not, sir," cried my wife, 



96 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD, 

winking at us ; '' and yet I dare say you can tell us 
how many jokes go to an ounce." " I fancy, madam," 
returned Burchell, " you have been reading a jest 
book this morning, that ounce of jokes is so very 
good a conceit ; and yet, madam, I had rather see 
half an ounce of understanding." "I believe you 
might," cried my wife, still smiling at us, though the 
laugh was against her ; " and yet I have seen some 
men pretend to understanding that have very little." 
" And no doubt," returned her antagonist, " you have 
known ladies set up for wit that had none." I quickly 
began to find that my wife was likely to gain but 
little at this business ; so I resolved to treat him in a 
style of more severity myself. " Both wit and under- 
standing," cried I, " are trifles without integrity ; it is 
that which gives value to every character. The ig- 
norant peasant without fault, is greater than the phi- 
losopher with many ; for what is genius or courage 
without a heart ? An honest man is the noblest work 

of Godr 

" I always held that hackneyed maxim of Pope," 
returned Mr. Burchell, " as very unworthy a man of 
genius, and a base desertion of his own superiority. 
As the reputation of books is raised, not by their free- 
dom from defect, but the greatness of their beauties ; 
so should that of men be prized, not for their exemp- 
tion from fault, but the size of those virtues they are 
possessed of. The scholar may want prudence, the 
statesman may have pride, and the champion ferocity ; 
but shall we prefer to these the low mechanic, who 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 97 

laboriously plods through life without censure or ap- 
plause ? We might as well prefer the tame correct 
paintings of the Flemish school, to the erroneous but 
sublime animations of the Roman pencil." 

" Sir," replied I, " your present observation is just, 
when there are shining virtues and minute defects ; 
but when it appears that great vices are opposed in 
the same mind to as extraordinary virtues, such a 
character deserves contempt." 

" Perhaps," cried he, " there may be some such 
monster as you describe, of great vices joined to great 
virtues ; yet in my progress through life, I never yet 
found one instance of their existence ; on the contrary, 
I have ever perceived, that where the mind was capa- 
cious, the affections were good. And indeed Prov- 
idence seems kindly our friend in this particular, 
thus to debilitate the understanding where the heart 
is corrupt, and diminish the power, where there is 
the will to do mischief. This rule seems to extend 
even to other animals ; the little vermin race are ever 
treacherous, cruel, and cowardly, whilst those en- 
dowed with strength and power, are generous, brave, 
and gentle." 

" These observations. sound well," returned I, "and 
yet it would be easy this moment to point out a man," 
and I fixed my eyes steadfastly upon him, "whose 
head and heart form a most detestable contrast. Ay, 
sir," continued I, raising my voice, " and I am glad 
to have this opportunity of detecting him in the midst 
of his fancied security. Do you know this, sir, this 
7 



98 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

pocket-book ? " " Yes, sir," returned he, with a face 
of impenetrable assurance, " that pocket-book is mine, 
and I am glad you have found it." " And do you 
know," cried I, " this letter? Nay, never falter, man ; 
but look me full in the face : I say do you know this 
letter ? " " That letter," returned he, " yes, it was I 
that wrote that letter." "And how could you," said 
I, " so basely, so ungratefully presume to write this 
letter ? " " And how came you," rei^lied he, with 
looks of unparalleled effrontery, " so basely to pre- 
sume to break open this letter? Don't you know, 
now, I could hang you all for this ? All that I have 
to do is to swear at the next Justice's, that you have 
been guilty of breaking open the lock of my pocket- 
book, and so hang you all up at this door." This 
piece of unexpected insolence raised me to such a 
pitch, that 1 could scarcely govern my passion. " Un- 
grateful wretch ! begone, and no longer pollute my 
dwelling with thy baseness ! begone, and never let 
me see thee again ! Go from my door, and the only 
punishment I wish thee is an alarmed conscience, 
which will be a sufficient tormentor ! " So saying, I 
threw him his pocket-book, which he took up with a 
smile, and shutting the clasps with the utmost com- 
posure, left us, quite astonished at the serenity of his 
assurance. My wife was particularly enraged that 
nothing could make him angry, or make him seem 
ashamed of his villainies. " My dear," cried I, will- 
ing to calm those passions that had been raised too 
high among us, " we are not surprised that bad men 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 99 

want shame ; they only blush at being detected in 
doing good, but glory in their vices. 

" Guilt and shame, says the allegory, were at first 
companions, and in the beginning of their journey, 
inseparably kept together. But their union was soon 
found to be disagreeable and inconvenient to both. 
Guilt gave Shame frequent uneasiness, and Shame 
often betrayed the secret conspiracies of Guilt. After 
long disagreement, therefore, they at length consented 
to part forever. Guilt boldly walked forward alone, 
to overtake Fate, that went before in the shape of an 
executioner ; but Shame being naturally timorous, 
returned back to keep company with Virtue, which 
in the beginning of their journey they had left be- 
hind. Thus, my children, after men have traveled 
through a few stages in vice. Shame forsakes them, 
and returns back to wait upon the few virtues they 
have still remaining." ^ 

1 " They no longer continue to have shame at doing evil, and 
shame attends only upon their virtues." — First Edit. 





CHAPTER XVI. 

THE FAMILY USE ART, WHICH IS OPPOSED WITH 
STILL GREATER. 

Whatever might have been Sophia's sensations, 
the rest of the family was easily consoled for Mr. 
Burchell's absence by the company of our landlord, 
whose visits now became more frequent, and longer. 
Though he had been disappointed in procuring my 
daughters the amusements of the town as he designed, 
he took every opportunity of supplying them with 
those little recreations which our retirement would 
admit of. He usually came in the morning, and 
while my son and I followed our occupations abroad, 
he sat with the family at home, and amused them by 
describing the town, with every part of which he was 
particularly acquainted. He could repeat all the ob- 
servations that were retailed in the atmosphere of the 
play houses, and had all the good things of the high 
wits by rote, long before they made their way into 
the jest books. The intervals between conversation 
were employed in teaching my daughters piquet, or 
sometimes in setting my two little ones to box, to 
make them sharp, as he called it : but the hopes of 
having him for a son-in-law, in some measure blinded 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 101 

US to all his imperfections. It must be owned that 
my wife laid a thousand schemes to entrap him ; or, 
to speak more tenderly, used every art to magnify 
the merit of her daughter. If the cakes at tea eat 
short and crisp, they were made by Olivia; if the 
gooseberry wine was well knit, the gooseberries were 
of her gathering ; it was her fingers which gave the 
pickles their peculiar green ; and in the composition 
of a pudding, it was her judgment that mixed the 
ingredients. Then the poor woman would sometimes 
tell the Squire, that she thought him and Olivia ex- 
tremely of a size, and would bid both stand up to see 
which was tallest. These instances of cunning, which 
she thought impenetrable, yet which everybody saw 
through, were very pleasing to our benefactor, who 
gave every day some new proofs of his passion, 
which, though they had not arisen to proposals of 
marriage, yet we thought fell but little short of it : 
and his slowness was attributed sometimes to native 
bashfulness, and sometimes to the fear of offending his 
uncle. An occurrence, however, which happened soon 
after, put beyond a doubt that he designed to be- 
come one of our family ; my wife even regarded it as 
an absolute promise. 

My wife and daughters happening to return a visit 
to neighbor Flamborough's, found that family had 
lately got their pictures drawn by a limner, who 
traveled the country, and took likenesses for fifteen 
shillings a head. As this family and ours had long a 
sort of rivalry in point of taste, our spirit took the 



102 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

alarm at this stolen march upon us, and notwithstand- 
ing all I could say, and I said much, it was resolved 
that we should have our pictures done too. Having, 
therefore, engaged the limner, — for what could I do ? 
our next deliberation was, to show the superiority of 
taste in the attitudes. As for our neighbor's family, 
there were seven of them, and they were drawn with 
seven oranges, a thing quite out of taste, no variety 
in life, no composition in the world. We desired to 
have something in a brighter style, and after many 
debates, at length came to an unanimous resolution 
of being drawn together in one large historical family 
piece. This would be cheaper, since one frame 
would serve for all, and it would be infinitely more 
genteel ; for all families of any taste were now drawn 
in the same manner. As we did not immediately 
recollect an historical subject to hit us, we were con- 
tented each with being drawn as independent histori- 
cal figures. My wife desired to be represented as 
Venus, and the painter was desired not to be too fru- 
gal of his diamonds in her stomacher and hair. Her 
two little ones were to be as Cupids by her side, 
while I, in my gown and band, was to present her 
with my books on the Whistonian controversy. 
Olivia would be drawn as an Amazon sitting upon 
a bank of flowers, dressed in a green Joseph, richly 
laced with gold, and a whip in her hand. Sophia 
was to be a shepherdess, with as many sheep as the 
painter could put in for nothing ; and Moses was to 
be dressed out with a hat and white feather. Our 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 103 

taste so much pleased the Squire, that he insisted on 
being put in as one of the family in the character of 
Alexander the Great, at Olivia's feet. This was con- 
sidered by us all as an indication of his desire to be 
introduced into the family, nor could we refuse his 
request. The painter was therefore set to work, and 
as he wrought with assiduity and expedition, in less 
than four days the whole was completed. The piece 
was large, and it must be owned he did not spare his 
colors ; for which my wife gave him great encomiums. 
We were all perfectly satisfied with his performance ; 
but an unfortunate circumstance had not occurred till 
the picture was finished, which now struck us with 
dismay. It was so very large that we had no place 
in the house to fix it. How we all came to disre- 
gard so material a point is inconceivable ; but cer- 
tain it is, we had been all greatly remiss. The pic- 
ture, therefore, instead of gratifying our vanity, as we 
hoped, leaned in a most mortifying manner against 
the kitchen wall, where the canvas was stretched and 
painted, much too large to be got through any of the 
doors, and the jest of all our neighbors. One com- 
pared it to Robinson Crusoe's long-boat, too large 
to be removed ; another thought it more resembled 
a reel in a bottle : some wondered how it could be 
got out, but still more were amazed how it ever 
got in. 

But though it excited the ridicule of some, it effec- 
tually raised more malicious suggestions in many. 
The Squire's portrait being found united with ours 



104 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

was an honor too great to escape envy. Scandalous 
whispers began to circulate at our expense, and our 
tranquillity was continually disturbed by persons who 
came as friends to tell us what was said of us by ene- 
mies. These reports we always resented, with be- 
coming spirit ; but scandal ever improves by opposi- 
tion. 

"We once again, therefore, entered into a consulta- 
tion upon obviating the malice of our enemies, and at 
last came to a resolution which had too much cun- 
ning to give me entire satisfaction. It was this : as 
our principal object was to discover the honor of Mr. 
Thornhill's addresses, my wife undertook to sound 
him, by pretending to ask his advice in the choice of 
a husband for her eldest daughter. If this was not 
found sufficient to induce him to a declaration, it was 
then resolved to terrify him with a rival. To this 
last step, however, I would by no means give my con- 
sent, till Olivia gave me the most solemn assurances 
that she would marry the person provided to rival 
him upon this occasion, if he did not prevent it, by 
taking her himself. Such was the scheme laid, 
which, though I did not strenuously oppose, I did not 
entirely approve. 

The next time, therefore, that Mr. Thornhill came 
to see us, my girls took care to be out of the way, in 
order to give their mamma an opportunity of putting 
their scheme into execution ; but they only retired to 
the next room, whence they could overhear the whole 
conversation. My wife artfully introduced it, by ob- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 105 

serving, that one of the Miss Flamboroaghs was like 
to have a good match of it in Mr. Spanker. To this 
the Squire assenting, she proceeded to remark, that 
they who had warm fortunes were always sure of 
getting good husbands : " But heaven help," continued 
she, " the girls that have none. What signifies 
beauty, Mr. Thornhill ? or what signifies all the vir- 
tue, and all the qualifications in the world, in this age 
of self-interest ? It is not, what is she ? but, what has 
she ? is all the cry." 

" Madam," returned he, " I highly approve the jus- 
tice, as well as the novelty of your remarks, and if I 
were a king it should be otherwise. It should, then, 
indeed, be fine times with the girls without fortunes : 
our two young ladies should be the first for whom I 
would provide." 

" Ah, sir," returned my wife, " you are pleased to 
be facetious but I wish I were a queen, and then I 
know where my eldest daughter should look for a 
husband. But, now that you have put it into my 
head, seriously, Mr. Thornhill, can't you recommend 
me a proper husband for her ? she is now nineteen 
years old, well grown and well educated, and, in my 
humble opinion, does not want for parts." 

" Madam," replied he, " if I were to choose, I would 
find out a person possessed of every accomplishment 
that can make an angel happy. One with prudence, 
fortune, taste, and sincerity; such madam, would be, 
in my opinion, the proper husband." " Ay, sir," said 



106 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

she, " but do you know of any such person ? " " No, 
madam," returned he, " it is imjDossible to know any 
person that deserves to be her husband : she 's too 
great a treasure for one man's possession ; she 's a 
goddess ! Upon my soul, I speak what I think, she 's 
an angel ! " " Ah, Mr. Thornhill, you only flatter 
my poor girl ; but we have been thinking of marry- 
ing her to one of your tenants, whose mother is lately 
dead, and who wants a manager ; you know whom I 
mean, farmer Williams ; a warm man, Mr. Thornhill, 
able to give her good bread ; and who has several 
times made her proposals (which was actually the 
case) ; but, sir," concluded she, " I should be glad 
to 'have your approbation of our choice." "How, 
madam," replied he, " my approbation ! My appro- 
bation of such a choice ! Never. What ! sacrifice so 
much beauty, and sense, and goodness, to a creature 
insensible of the blessing! Excuse me, I can never 
approve of such a piece of injustice ! And I have my 
reasons." "Indeed, sir," cried Deborah, "if you 
have your reasons that's another affair : but I should 
be glad to know these reasons." " Excuse me, 
madam," returned he, " they lie too deep for discov- 
ery (laying his hand upon his bosom) ; they remain 
buried, riveted here." 

After he was gone, upon a general consultation, 
we could not tell what to make of these fine senti- 
ments. Olivia considered them as instances of the 
most exalted passion ; but I was not quite so san- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



107 



guine ; it seemed to me pretty plain, that they had 
more of love than matrimony in them : yet whatever 
they might portend, it was resolved to prosecute the 
scheme of farmer Williams, who, from my daughter's 
first appearance in the country, had paid her his 
addresses. 





CHAPTER XVII. 

SCARCELY ANY VIRTUE FOUND TO RESIST THE 
POWER OF LONG AND PLEASING TEMPTATION. 

As I only studied my child's real happiness, the 
assiduity of Mr. Williams pleased me, as he was in 
easy circumstances, prudent, and sincere. It required 
but very little encouragement to revive his former 
passion ; so that in an evening or two he and Mr. 
Thornhill met at our house, and surveyed each other 
for some time with looks of anger ; but Williams 
owed his landlord no rent, and little regarded his in- 
dignation. Olivia, on her side, acted the coquette to 
perfection, if that might be called acting which was 
her real character, pretending to lavish all her ten- 
derness on her new lover. Mr. Thornhill appeared 
quite dejected at this preference, and with a pensive 
air took leave, though I own it puzzled me to find 
him so much in pain as he appeared to be, when he 
had it in his power so easily to remove the cause, by 
declaring an honorable passion. But whatever un- 
easiness he seemed to endure, it could easily be per- 
ceived that Olivia's anguish was still greater. After 
any of these interviews between her lovers, of which 
there were several, she usually retired to solitude, and 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 109 

there indulged her grief. It was in such a situation 
I found her one evening, after she had been for some 
time supporting a fictitious gayety. " You now see, 
my child," said I, " that your confidence in Mr. Thorn- 
hill's passion was all a dream : he permits the rivalry 
of another, every way his inferior, though he knows 
it lies in his power to secure you to himself by a can- 
did declaration." " Yes, papa " returned she, " but 
he has his reasons for this delay : I know he has. 
The sincerity of his looks and words convinces me of 
his real esteem. A short time, I hope, will discover 
the generosity of his sentiments, and convince you 
that my opinion of him has been more just than 
yours." " Olivia, my darling," returned I, " every 
scheme that has been hitherto pursued to compel him 
to a declaration, has been proposed and planned by 
yourself, nor can you in the least say that I have 
constrained you. But you must not suppose, my 
dear, that I will ever be instrumental in suffering his 
honest rival to be the dupe of your ill-placed passion. 
Whatever time you require to bring your fancied ad- 
mirer to an explanation, shall be granted; but at the' 
expiration of that term, if he is still regardless, I must 
absolutely insist that honest Mr. Williams shall be 
rewarded for his fidelity. The character which I 
have hitherto supported in life demands this from me, 
and my tenderness as a parent shall never influence 
my integrity as a man. Name then your day; let it 
be as distant as you think proper ; and in the mean 
time take care to let Mr. Thornhill know the exact 



110 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

time on which I design delivering you up to another. 
If he really loves you, his own good sense will readily 
suggest that there is but one method alone to prevent 
his losing you forever." This proposal, which she 
could not avoid considering as perfectly just, was 
readily agreed to. She again renewed her most pos- 
itive promise of marrying Mr. Williams, in case of 
the other's insensibility ; and at the next opportunity, 
in Mr. Thornhill's presence, that day month was fixed 
upon for her nuptials with his rival. 

Such vigorous proceedings seemed to redouble Mr. 
Thornhill's anxiety : but what Olivia really felt gave 
me some uneasiness. In this struggle between pru- 
dence and passion, her vivacity quite forsook her, and 
every opportunity of solitude was sought, and spent 
in tears. One week passed away ; but Mr. Thorn- 
hill made no efforts to restrain her nuptials. The suc- 
ceeding week he was still assiduous : but not more 
open. On the third he discontinued his visits entirely, 
and instead of my daughter testifying any impatience 
as I expected, she seemed to retain a pensive tran- 
quillity, which I looked upon as resignation. For my 
own j^art, I was now sincerely pleased with thinking 
that my child was going to be secured in a contin- 
uance of competence and peace, and frequently ap- 
plauded her resolution, in preferring happiness to 
ostentation. 

It was within about four days of her intended nup- 
tials, that my little family at night were gathered 
round a charming fire, telling stories of the past, and 



VICAK OF WAKEFIELD. Ill 

laying schemes for the future; busy in forming a 
thousand projects, and laughing at whatever folly 
came uppermost. " Well, Moses," cried I, " we shall 
soon, my boy, have a wedding in the family : what 
is your opinion of matters and things in general ? " 
" My opinion, father, is, that all things go on very 
well ; and I was just now thinking, that when sister 
Livy is married to farmer Williams, we shall then 
have the loan of his cider-press and brewing tubs for 
nothing." " That we shall, Moses," cried I, " and he 
will sing us Death and the Lady, to raise our spirits 
into the bargain." " He has taught that song to 
our Dick," cried Moses, " and I think he goes through 
with it very prettily." " Does he so ? " cried I, " then 
let us have it : where 's little Dick ? let him up with 
it boldly." "My brother Dick," cried Bill, my 
youngest, "is just gone out with sister Livy: but 
Mr. Williams has taught me two songs, and I '11 sing 
them for you, papa. Which song do you choose, The 
Dyiin^g Swan^ or The Elegy 07i the Death of a Mad 
Dog ? " " The elegy, child, by all means," said I ; 
" I never heard that yet ; and Deborah, my life, grief 
you know is dry, let us have a bottle of the best goose- 
berry-wine, to keep up our spirits. I have wept so 
much at all sorts of elegies of late, that without an 
enlivening glass, I am sure this will overcome me ; 
and Sophy, love, take your guitar, and thrum in with 
the boy a little." 



112 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 



AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 

Good people all of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song, 
And if you find it wondrous short 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man, 
Of whom the world might say, 

That still a godly race he ran 
Whene'er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 
To comfort friends and foes ; 

The naked every day he clad. 
When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found. 

As many dogs there be, 
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends ; 

But when a pique began, 
The dog, to gain some private ends, 

Went mad, and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighboring streets 
The wondering neighbors ran. 

And swore the dog had lost his wits, 
To bite so good a man. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 113 

The wound it seemed both sore and sad . 

To every Christian eye ; 
And while they swore the dog was mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 
That show'd the rogues they lied — 

The man recover' d of the bite. 
The dog it was that died. 

" A very good boy, Bill;^ upon my v7ord, and an 
elegy that may be truly calle^4ragical. Come, my 
children, here 's Bill's health, and may he one day be 
a bishop ! " 

" With all my heart," cried my wife ; " and if he 
but preaches as well as he sings, I make no doubt of 
him. The most of his family by his mother's side, 
could sing a good song : it was a common saying in 
our country, that the family of the Blenkinsops could 
never look straight before them, nor the Hugginsons 
blow out a candle ; that there were none of the Gro- 
grams but could sing a song, or of the Marjorams but 
could tell a story." " However that be," cried I, 
" the most vulgar ballad of them all generally pleases 
me better than the fine modern odes, and things that 
petrify us in a single stanza ; productions that we at 
once detest and praise. Put the glass to your brother, 
Moses. The great fault of these elegiasts is, that they 
are in despair for griefs that give the sensible part of 
mankind very little pain. A lady loses her muff, her 



114 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

fan, or her lap-dog, and so the silly poet runs home 
to versify the disaster." 

" That may be the mode," cried Moses, " in siib- 
limer compositions ; but the Eanelagh songs that 
come down to us are perfectly familiar, and all cast 
in the same mould : Colin meets Dolly, and they hold 
a dialogue together ; he gives her a fairing to put in 
her hair, and she presents him with a nosegay ; and^ 
then they go together to a church, where they gave 
good advice to young nymj)hs and swains to get mar- 
ried as fast as they can." 

" And very good advice too," cried I ; " and I am 
told there is not a place in the world where advice 
can be given with so much propriety as there ; for as 
it persuades us to marry, it also furnishes us with a 
wife : and surely that must be an excellent market, 
my boy, where we are told what we want, and sup- 
plied with it when wanting." 

" Yes, sir," returned Moses, " and I know of but 
two such markets for wives in Europe, Ranelagh in 
England, and Fontarabia in Spain. The Spanish 
market is open once a year ; but our English wives 
are salable every night." 

" You are right, my boy," cried his mother, " Old 
England is the only place in the world for husbands 
to o-et wives." " And for wives to manaoje their 
husbands," interrupted I. " It is a proverb abroad, 
that if a bridge were built across the sea, all the ladies 
of the continent would come over to take pattern from 
ours ; for there are no such wives in Europe as our 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 115 

own. But let ns have one bottle more, Deborah, my 
life ; and Moses, give us a good song. What thanks 
do we not owe to Heaven for thus bestowing tran- 
quillity, health, and competence ! I think myself 
happier now than the greatest monarch upon earth. 
He has no such fire side, nor such pleasant faces 
about it. Yes, Deborah, we are now growing old ; 
but the evening of our life is likely to be happy. We 
are descended from ancestors that knew no stain, and 
we shall leave a good and virtuous race of children 
behind us. While we live, they will be our support 
and our pleasure here ; and when we die, they will 
transmit our honor untainted to posterity. Come, 
my son, we wait for a song ; let us have a chorus. 
But where is my darling Olivia ? That little cherub's 
voice is always sweetest in the concert." Just as I 
spoke Dick came running in. "0 papa, papa, she is 
gone from us, she is gone from us ; my sister Livy is 
gone from us forever." " Gone, child ! " " Yes, she 
is gone off with two gentlemen in a post-chaise, and 
one of them kissed her, and said he would die for 
her : and she cried very much, and was for coming 
back ; but he persuaded her again, and she went into 
the chaise, and said, what will my poor papa do 
when he knows I am undone ! " " Now then," cried 
I, " my children, go and be miserable ; for we shall 
never enjoy one hour more. And may Heaven's 
everlasting fury light upon him and his ! Thus to 
rob me of my child ! And sure it will, for taking 
back my sweet innocent that I was leading up to 



116 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

Heaven. Such sincerity as my child was possessed 
of ! But all our earthly happiness is now over ! Go, 
my children, go and be miserable and infamous ; for 
my heart is broken within me ! " " Father," cried 
my son, " is this your fortitude ? " " Fortitude, 
child ! — yes, ye shall see I have fortitude ! Bring 
me my pistols. I '11 pursue the traitor ; while he is 
on earth I '11 pursue him. Old as I am, he shall find 
I can sting him yet. The villain ! The perfidious 
villain ! " I had by this time reached down my 
pistols, when my poor wife, whose passions were not 
as strong as mine, caught me in her arms. " My 
dearest, dearest husband," cried she, " the Bible is 
the only weapon that is fit for your old hands now. 
Open that, my love, and read our anguish into pa- 
tience, for she has vilely deceived us." " Indeed, sir," 
resumed my son, after a pause, " your rage is too 
violent and unbecoming. You should be my moth- 
er's comforter, and you increase her pain. It ill 
suited you and your reverend character, thus to curse 
your greatest enemy ; you should not have cursed 
him, villain as he is." " I did not curse him, child, 
did I ? " Indeed, sir, you did ; you curst him twice." 
" Then may Heaven forgive me and him if I did ! 
And now, my son, I see it was more than human be- 
nevolence that first taught us to bless our enemies ! 
Blessed be His holy name for all the good He hath 
given, and for all that he hath taken away. But it is 
not — it is not a small distress that can wring tears 
from these old eyes, that have not wept for so many 



VICAK OF WAKEFIELD. 117 

years. My child! — To undo my darling; — May 
confusion seize — Heaven forgive me, what am I 
about to say ! You may remember, my love, how 
good she was, and how charming ; till this vile mo- 
ment all her care was to make us happy. Had she 
but died ! But she is gone, the honor of our family 
contaminated, and I must look out for happiness in 
other worlds than here. But, my child, you saw 
them go off: perhaps he forced her away ? If he 
forced her, she may yet be innocent." " Ah, no, sir," 
cried the child ; " he only kissed her, and called her 
his angel, and she wept very much, and leaned upon 
his arm, and they drove off very fast." " She 's an 
ungrateful creature," cried my wife, who could scarcely 
speak for weeping, " to use us thus. She never had 
the least constraint put upon her affections. The 
vile strumpet has basely deserted her parents without 
any provocation, thus to bring your gray hairs to the 
grave ; and I must shortly follow." 

In this manner that night, the first of our real mis- 
fortunes, was spent in the bitterness of complaint, and 
ill-supported sallies of enthusiasm. I determined, 
however, to find out our betrayer, wherever he was, 
and reproach his baseness. The next morning we 
missed our wretched child at breakfast, where she 
used to give life and cheerfulness to us all. My wife, 
as before, attempted to ease her heart by reproaches. 
" Never," cried she, " shall the vilest stain of our 
family again darken these harmless doors. I will 
never call her daughter more. No, let the strumpet 



118 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

live with her vile seducer ; she may bring us to shame, 
but she shall never more deceive us." 

" Wife," said I, " do not talk thus hardly ; my de- 
testation of her guilt is as great as yours ; but ever 
shall this house and this heart be open to a poor re- 
turning repentant sinner. The sooner she returns 
from her transgressions, the more welcome shall she 
be to me. For the first time the very best may err ; 
art may persuade, and novelty spread out its charm. 
The first fault is the child of simplicity, but every 
other the offspring of guilt. Yes, the wretched creat- 
ure shall be welcome to this heart and this house, 
though stained with ten thousand vices. I will again 
hearken to the music of her voice, again will I hang 
fondly on her bosom, if I find but repentance there. 
My son, bring hither my Bible and my staff; I will 
pursue her wherever she is ; and though I cannot 
save her from shame, I may prevent the continuance 
of iniquity." 





CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE PURSUIT OF A FATHER TO RECLAIM A LOST 
CHILD TO VIRTUE. 

Though the child could not describe the gentle- 
man's person who handed his sister into the post- 
chaise, yet my suspicions fell entirely upon our young 
landlord, whose character for such intrigues was but 
too well known. I therefore directed my steps to- 
wards Thornhill Castle, resolving to upbraid him, 
and if possible to bring back my daughter : but be- 
fore I had reached his seat, I was met hj one of my 
parishioners, who said he saw a young lady resem- 
bling my daughter, in a post-chaise with a gentleman, 
whom, by the description, I could only guess to be 
Mr. Burchell, and that they drove very fast. This 
information, however, did by no means satisfy me. 
I therefore went to the yoang Squire's, and though 
it was yet early, insisted upon seeing him immedi- 
ately. He soon appeared with the most open familiar 
air, and seemed perfectly amazed at my daughter's 
elopement, protesting upon his honor that he was 
quite a stranger to it. I now, therefore, condemned 
my former suspicions, and could turn them only on 
Mr. Burchell, who I recollected had of late several 



120 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

private conferences with her ; but the appearance of 
another witness left no room to doubt his villainy, 
who averred, that he and my daughter were actually 
gone towards the Wells, about thirty miles off, where 
there was a great deal of company. Being driven to 
that state of mind in which we all are more ready to 
act precipitately than to reason right, I never de- 
bated with myself, whether these accounts might not 
have been given by persons purposely placed in my 
way to mislead me, but resolved to pursue my daugh- 
ter and her fancied deluder thither. I walked along 
with earnestness, and inquired of several by the way ; 
but received no accounts, till, entering the town, I 
was met by a person on horseback, whom I remem- 
bered to have seen at the Squire's, and he assured 
me, that if I followed them to the races, which were 
but thirty miles farther, I might depend upon over- 
taking them ; for he had seen them dance there the 
night before, and the whole assembly seemed charmed 
with my daughter's performance. Early the next 
day, I walked forward to the races, and about four in 
the afternoon I came upon the course. The company 
made a very brilliant appearance, all earnestly em- 
ployed in one pursuit, that of pleasure ; how different 
from mine, that of reclaiming a lost child to virtue ! 
I thought I perceived Mr. Burchell at some distance 
from me : but, as if he dreaded an interview, upon 
my approaching him he mixed among a crowd, and I 
saw him no more. I now reflected that it would be 
to no purpose to continue my pursuit farther, and re- 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 121 

solved to return home to an innocent family who 
wanted my assistance. But the agitations of my 
mind, and the fatigues I had undergone, threw me 
into a fever, the symptoms of which I perceived be- 
fore I came off the course. This was another unex- 
pected stroke, as I was more than seventy miles 
distant from home ; however, I retired to a little ale- 
house by the road-side, and in this place, the usual 
retreat of indigence and frugality, I laid me down 
patiently to wait the issue of my disorder. I lan- 
guished here for nearly three weeks ; but at last my 
constitution prevailed, though I was unprovided with 
money to defray the expenses of my entertainment. 
It is possible the anxiety from this last circumstance 
alone might have brought on a relapse, had I not been 
su23plied by a traveler, who stopped to take a cursory 
refreshment. This person was no other than the 
philanthropic bookseller in St. Paul's Church-yard,^ 
who has written so many little books for children : 
he called himself their friend ; but he was the friend 
of all mankind. He was no sooner alighted, but he 
was in haste to be gone ; for he was ever on business 
of the utmost importance, and was at that time actu- 
ally compiling materials for the history of one Mr. 
Thomas Trip. I immediately recollected this good- 
natured man's red-pimpled face ; for he had published 
for me against the Deuterogamists of the age, and 
from him I borrowed a few pieces, to be paid at my 
return. Leaving the inn, therefore, as I was yet but 
1 Mr. John Newberry. 



122 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

weak, I resolved to return home by easy journeys of 
ten miles a day. My health and usual tranquillity 
were almost restored, and I now condemned that 
pride which had made me refractory to the hand of 
correction. Man little knows what calamities are be- 
yond his patience to bear, till he tries them : as in 
ascending the heights of ambition, which look bright 
from below, every step we rise shows us some new 
and gloomy prospect of hidden disappointment ; so 
in our descent from the summits of pleasure, though 
the vale of misery below may appear at first dark and 
gloomy, yet the busy mind, still attentive to its own 
amusement, finds, as we descend, something to flatter 
and to please. Still, as we approach, the darkest 
objects appear to brighten, and the mental eye be- 
comes adapted to its gloomy situation. 

I now proceeded forward, and had walked about 
two hours, when I perceived what appeared at a 
distance like a wagon, which I was resolved to over- 
take ; but when I came up with it, found it to be a 
strolling company's cart, that was carrying their 
scenes and other theatrical furniture to the next vil- 
lage, where they were to exhibit. The cart was 
attended only by the person who drove it, and one of 
the company, as the rest of the players were to fol- 
low the ensuing day. " Good company upon the 
road," says the proverb, " is the shortest cut." I 
therefore entered into conversation with the poor 
player ; and as I once had some theatrical powers 
myself, I disserted on such topics with my usual free- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 123 

dom ; but as I was pretty much unacquaiiited with 
the present state of the stage, I demanded who were 
the present theatrical writers in vogue, who the Dry- 
dens and Otways of the day ? " I fancy, sir," cried 
the player, '' few of our modern dramatists would 
think themselves much honored by being compared to 
the writers you mention. Dry den's and Rowe's man- 
ner, sir, are quite out of fashion ; our taste has gone 
back a whole century; Fletcher, Ben Jonson, and 
all the plays of Shakespeare, are the only things that 
go down." " How," cried I, " is it possible the pres- 
ent age can be pleased with that antiquated dialect, 
that obsolete humor, those overcharged characters, 
which abound in the works you mention ? " " Sir," 
returned my companion, " the public think nothing 
about dialect, or humor, or character, for that is none 
of their business ; they only go to be amused, and 
find themselves happy when they can enjoy a panto- 
mime, under the sanction of Jonson's or Shakespeare's 
name." "So then, I suppose," cried I, "that our 
modern dramatists are rather imitators of Shakes- 
peare than of nature." " To say the truth," returned 
my companion, " I don't know that they imitate any- 
thing at all ; nor indeed does the public require it of 
them ; it is not the composition of the piece, but the 
number of starts and attitudes that may be introduced 
into it, that elicits applause. I have known a piece, 
with not one jest in the whole, shrugged into popu- 
larity, and another saved by the poet's throwing in a 
fit of the gripes. No, sir, the works of Congreve and 



124 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

Farquhar have too much wit in them for the present 
taste ; our modern dialect is much more natural." 

By this time the equipage of the strolling com- 
pany was arrived at the village, which it seems, had 
been aj^prised of our approach, and was come out to 
gaze at us : for my companion observed, that strollers 
always have more spectators without doors than 
within. I did not consider the impropriety of my 
being in such company, till I saw a mob gather 
about me. I therefore took shelter, as fast as possi- 
ble, in the first ale-house that offered, and being shown 
into the common room, was accosted by a very well 
dressed gentleman, who demanded whether I was 
the real chaplain of the comj^any, or whether it was 
only to be my masquerade character in the play. 
Upon my informing him of the truth, and that I did 
not belong in any sort to the company, he was con- 
descending enough to desire me and the player to par- 
take in a bowl of punch, over which he discussed 
modern politics with great earnestness and interest. 
I set him down in my own mind for nothing less 
than a parliament-man at least : but was almost con- 
firmed in my conjectures, when, upon asking what 
there was in the house for supper, he insisted that I 
and the player should sup with him at his house ; 
with which request after some entreaties, we were 
prevailed on to comply. 




CHAPTER XIX. 

THE DESCRIPTION OF A PERSON DISCONTENTED 
WITH THE PRESENT GOVERNMENT AND APPRE- 
HENSIVE OF THE LOSS OF OUR LIBERTIES, 

The house where we were to be entertained lying 
at a small distance from the village, our inviter ob- 
served, that as the coach was not ready, he would 
conduct us on foot; and we soon arrived at one of 
the most magnificent mansions I had seen in that 
part of the country. The apartment into which we 
were shown was perfectly elegant and modern ; he 
went to give orders for supper, while the player, with 
a wink, observed that we were perfectly in luck. 
Our entertainer soon returned ; an elegant supper 
was brought in, two or three ladies in easy dishabille 
were introduced, and the conversation began with 
some sprightliness. Politics, however, was the sub- 
ject on which our entertainer chiefly expatiated ; for 
he asserted that liberty was at once his boast and his 
terror. After the cloth was removed, he asked me 
if I had seen the last " Monitor ? " to which reply- 
ing in the negative, " What, npt the ' Auditor,' 
I suppose?" cried he. "Neither, sir," returned I. 
" That's strange, very strange," replied my entertainer. 



126 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

" Now I read all the politics, that come out. The 
" Daily," the "Public," the " Ledger," the "Chroni- 
cle," the " London Evening," the " Whitehall Even- 
ing," the seventeen Magazines, and the two Reviews ; 
and though they hate each other I love them all. Lib- 
erty, sir, liberty is the Briton's boast, and by all my 
coal-mines in Cornwall, I reverence its guardians." 
" Then it is to be hoped," cried I, " you reverence the 
king." " Yes," returned my entertainer, " when he 
does what w^e would have him ; but if he goes on as 
he has done of late, I '11 never trouble myself more 
with his matters. I say nothing. I think, only, I 
could have directed some things better. I don't think 
there has been a sufficient number of advisers ; he 
should advise with every person willing to give him 
advice, and then we should have things done in 
another guess manner." 

" I wish," cried I, " that such intruding advisers 
were fixed in the pillory. It should be the duty of 
honest men to assist the weaker side of our constitu- 
tion, that sacred power which has for some years 
been every day declining, and losing its due share of 
influence in the state. But these ignorants still con- 
tinue the same cry of liberty ; and if they have any 
weight, basely throw it iiito the subsiding scale." 

" How," cried one of the ladies, " do I live to see 
one so base, so sordid, as to be an enemy to liberty, 
and a defender of tyrants ? Liberty, that sacred gift 
of Heaven, that glorious privilege of Britons ! " 

" Can it be possible," cried our entertainer, " that 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 327 

there should be any found at present advocates for 
slavery? Any who are for meanly giving up the 
privileges of Britons ? Can any, sir, be so abject ? " 
" No, sir," replied I, " I am for liberty, that attrib- 
ute of God ! Glorious liberty ! that theme of modern 
declamation. I would have all men kings. I would 
be a king myself. We have all naturally an equal 
right to the throne : we are all originally equal. 
This is my opinion, and was once the opinion of a 
set of honest men who were called Levellers. They 
tried to erect themselves into a community, where all 
should be equally free. But, alas ! it would never 
answer; for there were some among them stronger, 
and some more cunning than others, and these be- 
came masters of the rest ; for as sure as your groom 
rides your horses, because he is a cunninger animal 
than they, so surely will the animal that is cunninger 
or stronger than he, sit upon his shoulders in turn. 
Since, then it is entailed upon humanity to submit, 
and some are born to command, and others to obey, 
the question is, as there must be tyrants, whether it 
is better to have them in the same house with us, or 
in the same village, or still farther off, in the metrop- 
olis. Now, sir, for my own part, as I naturally hate 
the face of a tyrant, the farther off he is removed 
from me, the better pleased am I. The generality of 
mankind also are of my way of thinking, and have 
unanimously created one king, whose election at once 
diminishes the number of tyrants, and puts tyranny 
at the greatest distance from the greatest number of 



128 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

people. Now, the great, who were tyrants them- 
selves before the election of one tyrant, are naturally 
averse to a power raised over them, and whose weight 
must ever lean heaviest on the subordinate orders. 
It is the interest of the great, therefore, to diminish 
kingly jDOwer as much as possible ; because whatever 
they take from that, is naturally restored to them- 
selves ; and all they have to do in the state, is to un- 
dermine the single tyrant, by which they resume 
their primeval authority. Now the state may be so 
circumstanced, or its laws may be so disposed, or its* 
men of opulence so minded, as all to consijire in 
carrying on this business of undermining monarchy. 
For, in the first place, if the circumstances of our 
state be such as to favor the accumulation of wealth, 
and make the opulent still more rich, this will in- 
crease their ambition. An accumulation of wealth, 
however, must necessarily be the consequence, when, 
as at present, more riches flow in from external com- 
merce than arise from internal industry : for external 
commerce can only be managed to advantage by the 
rich, and they have also at the same time all the 
emoluments arising from internal industry ; so that 
the rich, with us, have two sources of wealth, whereas 
the poor have but one. For this reason, wealth, in 
all commercial states, is found to accumulate, and all 
such have hitherto in time become aristocratical. 
Again, the very laws also of this country may con- 
tribute to the accumulation of wealth; as when, by 
their means, the natural ties that bind the rich and 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 129 

poor together are broken, and it is ordained, that the 
rich shall only marry with the rich ; or when the 
learned are held unqualified to serve their country as 
counsellors, merely from a defect of opulence, and 
wealth is thus made the object of a wise man's ambi- 
tion ; by these means, I say, and such means as these, 
riches will accumulate. Now the possessor of accu- 
mulated wealth, when furnished with the necessaries 
and pleasures of life, has no other method to employ 
the superfluity of his fortune but in purchasing power. 
That is, differently speaking, in making dependents, 
by purchasing the liberty of the needy or the venal, 
of men who are willing to bear the mortification of 
contiguous tyranny for bread. Thus each very opu- 
lent man generally gathers round him a circle of the 
people ; and the polity abounding in accumulated 
wealth, may be compared to a Cartesian system, each 
orb with a vortex of its own. Those, however, who 
are willing to move in a great man's vortex, are only 
such as must be slaves, the rabble of mankind, whose 
souls and whose education are adapted to servitude, 
and who know nothing of liberty except the name. 
But there must still be a large number of the people 
without the sphere of the opulent man's influence ; 
namely, that order of men which subsist between the 
very rich and the very rabble ; those men who are 
possest of too large fortunes to submit to the neigh- 
boring man in power, and yet are too poor to set up 
for tyranny themselves. In this middle order of 
mankind are generally to be found all the arts, wis- 



130 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

dom, and virtues of society. This order alone is 
known to be the true preserver of freedom, and may 
be called the people. Now it may happen that this 
middle order of mankind may lose all its influence in 
a state, and its voice be in a manner drowned in that 
of the rabble : for if the fortune sufficient for qualify- 
ing a person at present to give his voice in state 
affairs be ten times less than was judged sufficient 
upon forming the constitution, it is evident that 
greater numbers of the rabble will thus be introduced 
into the political system, and they ever moving in the 
vortex of the great, will follow where greatness shall 
direct. In such a state, therefore, all that the middle 
order has left, is to preserve the prerogative and priv- 
ileges of the one principal governor with the most 
sacred circumspection. For he divides the power of 
the rich, and calls off the great from falling with ten- 
fold weight on the middle order placed beneath them. 
The middle order may be compared to a town, of 
which the opulent are forming the siege, and to which 
the governor from without is hastening the relief. 
While the besiegers are in dread of an enemy over 
them, it is but natural to offer the townsmen the most 
specious terms ; to flatter them with sounds, and 
amuse them with privileges ; but if they once defeat 
the governor from behind, the walls of the town will 
be but a small defence to its inhabitants. What they 
may then expect, may be seen by turning our eyes to 
Holland, Genoa, or Venice, where the laws govern 
the poor, and the rich govern the laws. I am then 



VICAK OF WAKEFIELD. 131 

for, and would die for monarchy, sacred monarchy ; 
for if there be anything sacred amongst men, it must 
be the anointed Sovereign of his people ; and every 
diminution of his power, in war, or in peace, -is an 
infringement upon the real liberties of the subject. 
The sounds of liberty, patriotism, and Britons, have 
already done much ; it is to be hoped that the true 
sons of freedom will prevent their ever doing more. 
I have known many of those pretended champions of 
liberty in my time, yet do I not remember one that 
was not in his heart and in his family a tyrant." 

My warmth I found had lengthened this harangue 
beyond the rules of good breeding ; but the impatience 
of my entertainer, who often strove to interrupt it, 
could be restrained no longer. " What," cried he, 
"then I have been all this while entertaining a 
Jesuit in parson's clothes ! but by all the coal-mines 
of Cornwall, out he shall pack, if my name be Wilk- 
inson." I now found that I had gone too far, and 
asked pardon for the warmth with which I had 
spoken. " Pardon ! " returned he in a fury ; " I think 
such principles demand ten thousand pardons. What ? 
give up liberty, property, and, as the " Gazetteer" 
says, lie down to be saddled with wooden shoes ! Sir, 
I insist upon your marching out of this house imme- 
diately, to prevent worse consequences : Sir, I insist 
upon it." I was going to repeat my remonstrances : 
but just then we heard a footman's rap at the door, 
and the two ladies cried out, " As sure as death there 
is our master and mistress come home." It seems 



132 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

my entertainer was all this while only the butler, 
who, in his master's absence, had a mind to cut a 
figure, and be for a while the gentleman himself; and 
to say the truth, he talked politics as well as most 
country gentlemen do. But nothing could now ex- 
ceed my confusion upon seeing the gentleman and 
his lady enter ; nor was their surprise at finding such 
company and good cheer, less than ours. " Gentle- 
men," qried the real master of the house to me and 
my companion, " my wife and I are your most hum- 
ble servants ; but I protest this is so unexpected a 
favor, that we almost sink under the obligation." 
However unexpected our company might be to them, 
theirs I am sure was still more so to us, and I was 
struck dumb with the apprehensions of my own ab- 
surdity, when whom should I next see enter the room 
but my dear Mis Arabella Wilmot, who was formerly 
designed to be married to my son George, but whose 
match was broken off as already related. As soon 
as she saw me, she flew to my arms with the utmost 
joy. " My dear sir," cried she, " to what happy acci- 
dent is it that we owe so unexpected a visit ? I am 
sure my uncle and aunt will be in raptures when they 
find they have the good Dr. Primrose for their guest." 
Upon hearing my name, the old gentleman and lady 
very politely stept up, and welcomed me with the 
most cordial hospitality. Nor could they forbear 
smiling, upon being informed of the nature of my 
present visit : but the unfortunate butler, whom they 
at first seemed disposed to turn away, was at my in- 
tercession forgiven. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 133 

Mr. Arnold and his lady, to whom the house be- 
longed, now msisted upon having the pleasure of my 
stay for some days ; and as their neice, my charming 
pupil, whose mind in some measure had been formed 
under my own instructions, joined in their entreaties, 
I complied. That night I was shown to a magnifi- 
cent chamber, and the next morning early Miss Wil- 
mot desired to walk with me in the garden, which 
was decorated in the modern manner. After some 
time spent in pointing out the beauties of the place, 
she inquired with seeming unconcern, when last I 
had heard from my son George ? " Alas ! madam," 
cried I, " he has now been nearly three years absent, 
without ever writing to his friends or me. Where 
he is I know not ; perhaps I shall never see him 
or happiness more. No, my dear madam, we shall 
never more see such pleasing hours as were once 
spent by our fire-side at Wakefield. My little family 
are now dispersing very fast, and poverty has brought 
not only want, but inftimy upon us." The good-na- 
tured girl let fall a tear at this account ; but as I saw 
her possessed of too much sensibility, I forbore a 
more minute detail of our sufierings. It was, how- 
ever, some consolation to me, to find that time had 
made no alteration in her affections, and that she 
had rejected several offers that had been made her, 
since our leaving her part of the country. She led 
me round all the extensive improvements of the 
place, pointing to the several walks and arbors, and 
at the same time catching from every object a hint 



134 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

for some new question relative to my son. In this 
manner we spent the forenoon, till the bell summoned 
us in to dinner, where we found the manager of the 
strolling company that I mentioned before, who was 
come to dispose of tickets for the Fair Penitent, which 
was to be acted that evening, the part of Horatio by 
a young gentleman who had never appeared on any 
stage. He seemed to be very warm in the praises of 
the new performer, and averred that he never saw any 
who bid so fair for excellence. Acting, he observed, 
was not learned in a day ; " but this gentleman," con- 
tinued he, " seems born to tread the stage. His voice, 
his figure, and attitudes, are all admirable. We 
caught him up accidentally in our journey down." 
This account, in some measure, excited our curiosity, 
and, at the entreaty of the ladies, I was prevailed 
upon to accompany them to the play-house, which 
was no other than a barn. As the company with 
which I went was incontestibly the chief of the place, 
we were received with the greatest respect, and 
placed in the front seat of the theatre ; where we sat 
for some time with no small impatience to see Horatio 
make his appearance. The new performer advanced 
at last ; and let parents think of my sensations by 
their own, when I found it was my unfortunate son. 
He was going to begin, when, turning his eyes upon 
the audience, he perceived Miss Wilmot and me, and 
stood at once speechless and immovable. The actors 
behind the scene, who ascribed this pause to his nat- 
ural timidity, attempted to encourage him ; but in- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 135 

Stead of going on, he burst into a flood of tears, and 
retired off the stage. I don't know what were my 
feelings on this occasion, for they succeeded with too 
much rapidity for description ; but I was soon awaked 
from this disagreeable reverie by Miss Wilmot, who, 
pale, and with a trembling voice, desired me to con- 
duct her back to her uncle's. When got home, Mr. 
Arnold, who was as yet a stranger to our extraordi- 
nary behavior, being informed that the new performer 
was my son, sent his coach and an invitation for him ; 
and as he persisted in his refusal to appear again 
upon the stage, the players put another in his place, 
and we soon had him with us. Mr. Arnold gave him 
the kindest reception, and I received him with my 
usual transport ; for I could never counterfeit false 
resentment. Miss Wilmot's reception was mixed 
with seeming neglect, and yet I could perceive she 
acted a studied part. The tumult in her mind seemed 
not yet abated ; she said twenty giddy things that 
looked like joy, and then laughed loud at her own 
want of meaning. At intervals she would take a sly 
peep at the glass, as if happy in the consciousness of 
irresistible beauty, and often would ask questions 
without giving any manner of attention to the an- 
swers. 




CHAPTER XX. 



THE HISTORY OF A PHILOSOPHIC VAGABOND, PUR- 
SUING NOVELTY, BUT LOSING CONTENT. 

After we had supped, Mrs. Arnold politely offered 
to send a couple of her footmen for ray son's baggage, 
which he at first seemed to decline ; but upon her 
pressing the request, he was obliged to inform her, that 
a stick and wallet were all the movable things upon 
this earth that he could boast of. " Why, ay, my 
son," cried I, " you left me but poor, and poor I find 
you are come back ; and yet I make no doubt you 
have seen a great deal of the world." " Yes, sir," 
replied my son, " but traveling after fortune is not 
the way to secure her ; and indeed of late I have de- 
sisted from the pursuit." " I fancy, sir," cried Mrs. 
Arnold, " that the account of your adventures would 
be amusing : the first part of them I have often heard 
from my niece ; but could the company prevail for 
the rest, it would be an additional obligation." 
" Madam," replied my son, " I promise you the pleas- 
ure you have in hearing will not be half so great as 
my vanity in repeating them ; yet in the whole nar- 
rative I can scarcely promise you one adventm-e, as 
my account is rather of what I saw than what I did. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 137 

Tlie first misfortune of my life, which you all know, 
was great ; but though it distressed, it could not sink 
me. No person ever had a better knack at hoping 
than I. The less kind I found fortune at one time, 
the more I expected from her another, and being now 
at the bottom of her wheel, every new revolution 
might lift, bat could not depress me. I proceeded, 
therefore, towards London in a fine morning, no way 
uneasy about to-morrow, but cheerful as the birds 
that carolled by the road, and comforted myself with 
reflecting that London was the mart where abilities 
of every kind were sure of meeting distinction and 
reward. 

" Upon my arrival in town, sir, my first care was 
to deliver your letter of recommendation to our 
cousin, who was himself in little better circumstances 
than L My first scheme, you know, sir, was to be 
usher at an academy, and I asked his advice on the 
aifair. Our cousin received the proposal with a true 
Sardonic grin. Ay, cried he, this is indeed a very 
pretty career that has been chalked out for you. I 
have been an usher at a boarding-school myself; and 
may I die by an anodyne necklace, but I had rather 
be an under-turnkey in Newgate. I was up early 
and late ; I was browbeat by the master, hated for 
my ugly face by the mistress, worried by the boys 
within, and never permitted to stir out to meet civ- 
ility abroad. But are you sure you are fit for a 
school ? Let me examine you a little. Have you 
been bred an apprentice to the business ? No. Then 



138 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

you won't do for a school. Can you dress the boys' 
hair ? No. Then you won't do for a school. Have 
you had the small-pox ? No. Then you won't do 
for a school. Can you lie three in a bed "^ No. Then 
you will never do for a school. Have you got a 
good stomach ? Yes. Then you will by no means 
do for a school. No, sir, if you are for a genteel 
easy profession, bind yourself seven years an appren- 
tice to turn a cutler's wheel ; but avoid a school by 
any means. Yet come, continued he, I see you are 
a lad of spirit and some learning, what do you think 
of commencing author, like me ? You have read in 
books, no J, doubt, of men of genius starving at the 
trade. At present I'll show you forty very dull 
fellows about town that live by it in opulence ; all 
honest jog-trot men, who go on smoothly and dully, 
and write history and politics, and are praised : men, 
sir, who, had they been bred cobblers, would all 
their lives have only mended shoes, but never made 
them. 

" Finding that there was no great degree of gen- 
tility affixed to the character of an usher, I resolved 
to accept his proposals ; and having the highest re- 
sj:)ect for literature, hailed the antiqua mater of Grub- 
street with reverence. I thought it my glory to 
pursue a track which Dryden and Otway trod before 
me. I considered the goddess of this region as the 
parent of excellence ; and however an intercourse 
with the world might give us good sense, the poverty 
she entailed I supposed to be the nurse of genius ! 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 139 

Big with these reflections, I sat down, and finding 
that the best things remained to be said on the wrong 
side, I resolved to write a book that should be wholly 
new. I therefore drest up three paradoxes with some 
ingenuity. They were false, indeed, but they were 
new.^ The jewels of truth have been so often im- 
ported by others, that nothing was left for me to im- 
port but some splendid things that at a distance 
looked every bit as well. Witness, ye powers, what 
fancied importance sat perched upon my quill while I 
was writing ! The whole learned world, I made no 
doubt, would rise to oppose my systems ; but then I 
was prepared to oppose the whole learned world. 
Like the porcupine, I sat self-collected, with a quill 
pointed against every opposer." 

" Well said, my boy," cried I, " and what subject 
did you treat upon ? I hope you did not pass over 
the importance of monogamy. But I interrupt ; go 
on : you published your paradoxes ; well and what 
did the learned world say to your paradoxes ? " 

" Sir," replied my son, " the learned worlcf said 
nothing to my paradoxes ; nothing at all, sir. Every 
man of them was employed in praising his friends 

1 "I remember," said Dr. Johnson, *' a passage in Goldsmith's 
' Vicar of Waketield ' which he was afterwards fool enough to ex- 
punge. ' I do not love a man who is zealous for nothing.' There 
was another fine passage too, which he struck out: ' When I was 
a young man, being anxious to distinguish myself, I was perpetu- 
ally starting new propositions. But I soon gave this over ; for I 
found that generally what was new was false.' " — Boswell, 
vol. vii., p. 2-4. 



140 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

and himself, or condemning his enemies ; and unfor- 
tunately, as I had neither, I suffered the cruelest 
mortification, neglect. 

" As I was meditating one day in a coffee-house on 
the fate of my paradoxes, a little man happening to 
enter the room, placed himself in the box before me, 
and after some preliminary discourse, finding me to 
be a scholar, drew out a bundle of proposals, begging 
me to subscribe to a new edition he was going to give 
to the world of Propertius with notes. This demand 
necessarily produced a reply that I had no money ; 
and that concession led him to inquire into the nature 
of my expectations. Finding that my expectations 
were just as great as my purse, I see, cried he, you 
are unacquainted with the town ; I '11 teach you a part 
of it. Look at these proposals, — upon these very 
proposals I have subsisted very comfortably for 
twelve 3^ears. The moment a nobleman returns 
from his travels, a Creolian arrives from Jamaica, or 
a dowager from her country-seat, I strike for a sub- 
scription. I first besiege their hearts with flattery, 
and then pour in my projDOsals at the breach. If 
they subscribe readily the first time, I renew my re- 
quest to beg a dedication fee. If they let me have 
that, I smite them once more for engraving their coat 
of arms at the top. Thus, continued he, I live by 
vanity and laugh at it. But between ourselves, I am 
now too well known ; I should be glad to borrow 
your face a bit ; a nobleman of distinction has just 
returned from Italy ; my face is famihar to his por- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 1-41 

ter ; but if you bring this copy of verses, my life for 
it you succeed, and we divide the spoil." 

" Bless us, George," cried I, " and is this the em- 
ployment of poets now ! Do men of their exalted 
talents thus stoop to beggary ! Can they so far dis- 
grace their calling, as to make a vile traffic of praise 
for bread ? " 

" no, sir," returned he, " a true poet can never 
be so base ; for wherever there is genius, there is 
pride. The creatures I now describe are only beg- 
gars in rhyme. The real poet, as he braves every 
hardship for fame, so he is equally a coward to con- 
tempt ; and none but those who are unworthy pro- 
tection, condescend to solicit it. 

" Having a mind too proud to stoop to such indig- 
nities, and yet a fortune too humble to hazard a 
second attempt for fame, I was now obliged to take a 
middle course, and write for bread. But I was un- 
qualified for a profession where mere industry alone 
was to ensure success. I could not suppress my 
lurking passion for applause ; but usually consumed 
that time in eiforts after excellence which takes up 
but little room, when it should have been more ad- 
vantageously employed in the diffusive productions of 
fruitful mediocrity. My little piece would therefore 
come forth in the midst of periodical publications, 
unnoticed and unknown. The public were more im- 
/ portantly employed than to observe the easy sim- 
plicity of my style, or the harmony of my periods. 
Sheet after sheet was thrown off to oblivion. My 



142 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

essays were buried among the essays upon liberty, 
eastern tales, and cures for the bite of a mad dog ; 
while Philautos, Philalethes, Philelutheros, and Phi- 
ianthropos all wrote better, because they wrote faster 
than I.^ 

'• Now, therefore, I began to associate with none 
but disappointed authors like myself, who praised, de- 
plored, and despised each other. The satisfiiction we 
found in every celebrated writer's attempts, was in- 
versely as their merits. I found that no genius in 
another could please me. My unfortunate paradoxes 
had entirely dried up that source of comfort. I could 
neither read nor write with satisfaction ; for excel- 
lence in another way was my aversion, and writing 
was my trade. 

" In the midst of these gloomy reflections, as I was 
one day sitting on a bench in St. James's park, a 
young gentleman of distinction, who had been my in- 
timate acquaintance at the university, approached me. 
We saluted each other with some hesitation ; he 
almost ashamed of being known to one who made so 
shabby an a^Dpearance, and I afraid of a repulse. But 
my suspicions soon vanished ; for Ned Thornhill was 
at the bottom a very good-natured fellow." 

^ Goldsmith's own situation seems to be exactly and minutely 
described in the above passage. The allusions of having made 
one attempt for fame, meaning the " Inquir\- into Polite Learning " 
— his being obliged afterwards to write for bread — to his passion 
for applause — to his efforts at acquiring an elegant stj'le — scarcely 
admit of mistake ; and the complaint of the fate of his pieces is in 
nearly the words used in the preface to his Essays. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 143 

u w^iia^ ^[(\ yoxi say, George ! " interrupted I. 
" Thornliill, was not that his name ? It can certainly 
be no other than my landlord." " Bless me," cried 
Mrs. Arnold, " is Mr. Thornhill so near a neighbor 
of yours ? He has long been a friend to our family, 
and we expect a visit from him shortly." 

" My friend's first care," continued my son, " was 
to alter my appearance by a very fine suit of his own 
clothes, and then I was admitted to his table, upon 
the footing of half friend, half underling. My busi- 
ness was to attend him at auctions, to put him in 
spirits when he sat for his picture, to take the left 
hand in his chariot when not filled by another, and to 
assist at tattering a kip, as the phrase was, when he 
had a mind for a frolic. Besides this, I had twenty 
other little employm.ents in the family. I was to do 
many small things without bidding ; to carry the 
corkscrew ; to stand godfather to all the butler's 
children; to sing when I was bid; to be never out 
of humor ; always to be humble, and if I could, to 
be very happy. 

" In this honorable post, however, I was not with- 
out a rival. A captain of marines, who was formed 
for the place by nature, opposed me in my patron's 
affections. His mother had been laundress to a man 
of quality, and thus he early acquired a taste for 
pimping and pedigree. As this gentleman made it 
the study of his life to be acquainted with lords, 
though he was dismissed from several for his stu- 
pidity, yet he found many of them who were as dull 



144 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

as himself, that permitted his assiduities. As flattery- 
was liis trade, he practiced it with the easiest address 
imaginable ; but it came awkward and stiff from me : 
and as everj^ day my patron's desire of flattery in- 
creased, so every hour being better acquainted with 
his defects I became more unwilling to Sfive it. Thus 
I was once more fairly going to give up the field to 
the captain, when my friend found occasion for my 
assistance. This was nothing less than to fioht a 
duel for him, with a gentleman whose sister it was 
pretended he had used ill. I readily complied with 
his request, and though I see you are displeased with 
my conduct, yet, as it was a debt indispensably due 
to friendship, I could not refuse. I undertook the 
affair, disarmed my antagonist, and soon after had the 
pleasure of finding that the lady was only a woman 
of the town, and the fellow her bully and a sharper. 
This piece of service was repaid with the warmest 
professions of gratitude ; but as my friend was to 
leave town in a few days, he knew no other method 
of serving me, but by recommending me to his uncle 
Sir William Thornhill, and another nobleman of great 
distinction who enjoyed a post under the government. 
When he was gone, my first care was to carry his 
recommendatory letter to his uncle, a man whose 
character for every virtue was universal, yet just. I 
was received by his servants with the most hospitable 
smiles ; for the looks of the domestic ever transmit 
their master's benevolence. Being shown into a 
grand apartment, where Sir William soon came to 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 145 

me, I delivered my message, and letter, whicli lie 
read, and after pausing some minutes, Pray, sir, cried 
he, inform me what you have done for my kinsman 
to deserve this warm recommendation : But I sup- 
pose, sir, I guess your merits ; you have fought for 
him ; and so you would expect a reward from me for 
being the instrument of his vices. I wish, sincerely 
wish, that my present refusal may be some punish- 
ment for your guilt ; but still more, that it may be 
some inducement to your repentance. The severity 
of this rebuke I bore patiently, because I knew it 
was just. My whole expectations now, therefore, 
lay in my letter to the great man. As the doors of 
the nobility are almost ever beset with beggars, all 
ready to thrust in some sly petition, I found it no 
easy matter to gain admittance. However, after 
bribing the servants with half my worldly fortune, I 
was at last shown into a spacious apartment, my 
letter being previously sent up for his lordship's in- 
spection. During this anxious interval I had fall 
time to look around me. Everything was grand and 
of happy contrivance ; the paintings, the furniture, 
the guildings, petrified me with awe, and raised my 
idea of the owner. Ah, thought I to myself, how 
very great' must the possessor of all these things be, 
who carries in his head the business of the state, and 
whose house displays half the wealth of a kingdom ; 
sure his genius must be unfathomable ! During these 
awful reflections, I heard a step come heavily for- 
ward. Ah, this is the great man himself! No, it 
10 



146 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

was only a chambermaid. Another foot was heard 
soon after. This must be he ! No, it was only the 
great man's valet de chambre. At last his lordship 
actually made his appearance. Are you, cried he, 
the bearer of this here letter? I answered with a 
bow. I learn by this, continued he, as how that — 
But just at that instant a servant delivered him a 
card, and without taking farther notice, he went out 
of the room, and left me to digest my own happiness 
at leisure ; I saw no more of him, till told by a foot- 
man that his lordship was going to his coach at the 
door. Down I immediately followed, and joined my 
voice to that of three or four more, who came, like 
me, to petition for favors. His lordship, however, 
went too fast for us, and was gaining his chariot door 
with large strides, when I hallooed out to know if I 
was to have any reply. He was by this time got in, 
and muttered an answer, half of which only I heard, 
the other half was lost in the rattling of his chariot 
wheels. I stood for some time with my neck stretched 
out, in the posture of one that was listening to catch 
the glorious sounds, till looking round me, I found 
myself alone at his lordship's gate. 

" INIy patience," continued my son, " was now quite 
exhausted : stung with the thousand indigHities I had 
met with, I was willing to cast myself away, and only 
wanfed the gulf to receive me. I regarded myself 
as one of those vile things that nature designed should 
be thrown by into her lumber-room, there to perish 
in obscurity. I had still, however, half a guinea left. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 147 

and of that I thought fortune herself should not de- 
prive me; but in order to be sure of this, I was 
resolved to go instantly and spend it, while I had it, 
and then trust to occurrences for the rest. As I was 
going along with this resolution, it happened that Mr. 
Crispe's office seemed invitingly open to give me a 
welcome reception. In this office Mr. Crispe kindly 
offers all his Majesty's subjects a generous promise 
of £30 a year, for which promise all they give in 
return is their liberty for life, and permission to let 
him transport them to America as slaves. I was 
happy at finding a place, where I could lose my fears 
in desperation, and entered this cell (for it had the 
appearance of one) with the devotion of a monastic. 
Here I found a number of poor creatures, all in cir- 
cumstances like myself, expecting the arrival of Mr. 
Crispe, presenting a true epitome of English im- 
patience. Each untractable soul at variance with 
fortune, wreaked her injuries on their own hearts : 
but Mr. Crispe at last came down, and all our mur- 
murs where hushed. He deigned to regard me with 
an air of peculiar approbation, and indeed he was the 
first man who for a month past had talked to me with 
smiles. After a few questions, he found I was fit for 
everything in the world. He paused awhile upon 
the properest means of providing for me, and slap- 
ping his forehead as if he had found it, assured me, 
that there was at that time an embassy talked of from 
the synod of Pennsylvania to the Chickasaw Indians, 
and that he would use his interest to get me made 



148 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

secretary. I knew in my own heart that the fellow 
lied, and yet his promise gave me pleasure, there was 
something so magnificent in the sound. I fairly 
therefore divided my half-guinea, one half of which 
went to be added to his thirty thousand pounds, and 
with the other half I resolved to go to the next tav- 
ern, to be there more happy than he. 

"As I was going out with that resolution, I was 
met at the door by the captain of a ship with whom 
I had formerly some little acquaintance, and he 
agreed to be my companion over a bowl of punch. 
As I never chose to make a secret of my circum- 
stances, he assured me that I was upon the very point 
of ruin, in listening to the office-keejoer's promises ; 
for that he only designed to sell me to the plantations. 
But, continued he, I fancy you might, by a much 
shorter voyage, be very easily put into a genteel waj'- 
of bread. Take my advice. My ship sails to-morrow 
for Amsterdam. What if you go in her as a passen- 
ger ? The moment you land, all you have to do is to 
teach the Dutchmen English, and I'll warrant you'll 
get pupils and money enough. I suppose you under- 
stand English, added he, by this time, or the deuce is 
in it. I confidently assured him of that : but ex- 
pressed a doubt whether the Dutch would be willing 
to learn English. He affirmed with an oath that they 
would be fond of it to distraction ; and upon that 
affirmation I agreed with his proposal, and embarked 
the next day to teach the Dutch English in Holland. 
The wind was fair, our voyage short, and after having 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 149 

paid my passage with half my movables, I found my- 
self, fallen as from the skies, a stranger in one of the 
principal streets of Amsterdam. In this situation I 
was unwilling to let any time pass unemployed in 
teaching. I addressed myself therefore to two or 
three of those I met, whose appearance seemed most 
promising ; but it was impossible to make ourselves 
mutually understood. It was not till this very mo- 
ment I recollected, that in order to teach the Dutch- 
men English, it was necessary that they should first 
teach me Dutch. How I came to overlook so obvious 
an objection is to me amazing ; but certain it is I 
overlooked it. 

" This scheme thus blown up, I had some thoughts 
of fairly shipping back to England again : but falling 
into company with an Irish student who was return- 
ing from Louvain, our conversation turning upon 
topics of literature (for by the way it may be ob- 
served, that I always forgot the meanness of my cir- 
cumstances when I could converse upon such subjects), 
from him I learned that there were not two men in 
his whole university who understood Greek. This 
amazed me. I instantly resolved to travel to Lou- 
vain, and there live by teaching Greek ; and in this 
design I was heartened by my brother student, who 
threw out some hints that a fortune might be got by it. 

" I set boldly forward the next morning. Every 
day lessened the burden of my movables, like iEsop 
and his basket of bread ; for I paid them for my 
lodgings to the Dutch as I traveled on. When I 



150 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

came to Louvain, I was resolved not to go sneaking 
to the lower professors, but openly tendered my tal- 
ents to the principal himself. I went, had admittance, 
and offered him my service as a master of the Greek 
language, which I had been told was a desideratum 
in his university. The principal seemed at first to 
doubt of my abilities ; but of these I offered to con- 
vince him by turning a part of any Greek author he 
should fix upon into Latin. Finding me perfectly 
earnest in my proposal, he addressed me thus ; You 
see me, young man : I never learned Greek, and I 
don't find that I have ever missed it. I have had a 
doctor's cap and gown without Greek ; I have ten 
thousand florins a year without Greek ; I eat heartily 
without Greek ; and in short, continued he, as I don't 
know Greek, I do not believe there is any good in 
it. 

" I was now too far from home to think of return- 
ing ; so I resolved to go forward. I had some 
knowledge of music, with a tolerable voice, and now 
turned what was my amusement into a present means 
of subsistence. I passed among the harmless j^eas- 
ants of Flanders, and among such of the French as 
were poor enough to be very merry ; for I ever 
found them sprightly in proportion to their wants. 
Whenever I approached a peasant's house towards 
nightfall, I played one of my most nierry tunes, and 
that procured me not only a lodging, but subsistence 
for the next day. I once or twice attempted to play 
for people of fashion ; but they always thought my 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 151 

performance odious, and never rewarded me even 
with a trifle. This was to me the more extraordi- 
nary, as whenever I used in better days to play for 
company, when playing was my amusement, my music 
never failed to throw them into raptures, and the 
ladies especially ; but as it was now my only means, 
it was received with contempt — a proof how ready 
the world is to underrate those talents by which a 
man is supported. 

" In this manner I proceeded to Paris, with no de- 
sign but just to look about me, and then to go for- 
ward. The people of Paris are much fonder of 
strangers that have money than those that have wit. 
As I could not boast much of either I was no great 
favorite. After walking about the town four or live 
days, and seeing the outsides of the best houses, I 
was preparing to leave this retreat of venal hospital- 
ity, when passing through one of the principal streets, 
whom should I meet but our cousin, to whom you 
first recommended me. This meeting was very 
agreeable to me, and I believe not displeasing to 
him. He inquired into the nature of my journey to 
Paris, and informed me of his own business there, 
which was to collect pictures, medals, intaglios, and 
antiques of all kinds for a gentleman in London, who 
had just stept into taste and a large fortune. I was 
the more surprised at seeing our cousin pitched upon 
for this office, as he himself had often assured me he 
knew nothing of the matter. Upon asking how he 
had been taught the art of a cognoscento so very 



152 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

suddenly, he assured me that nothing was more easy. 
The whole secret consisted in a strict adherence to 
two rules : the one, always to observe the picture 
might have been better if the painter had taken more 
pains ; and the other, to praise the works of Pietro 
Perugino. But, says he, as I once taught you how 
to be an author in London, I '11 now undertake to in- 
struct you in the art of picture-buying at Paris. 

" With this proposal I very readily closed, as it 
was living, and now all my ambition was to live. I 
went therefore to his lodgings, improved my dress by 
his assistance, and after some time accompanied him 
to auctions of pictures, where the English gentry 
were expected to be purchasers. I was not a little 
surprised at his intimac}^ with people of the best 
fashion, who referred themselves to his taste or judg- 
ment upon every picture or medal, as to an unerring 
standard of taste. He made very good use of my 
assistance upon these occasions ; for when asked his 
opinion, he would gravely take me aside and ask 
mine, shrug, look wise, return, and assure the com- 
pany that he could give no opinion upon an affair of 
so much importance. Yet there was sometimes an 
occasion for a more important assurance. I remem- 
ber to have seen him, after giving his opinion that 
the coloring of a picture was not mellow enough, 
very deliberately take a brush with brown varnish, 
that was accidentally lying by, and rub it over the 
piece with great composure before all the company, 
and then ask if he had not improved the tint. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 153 

" When he had finished his commission in Paris, 
he left me strongly recommended to several men of 
distinction as a person very proper for a traveling 
tutor ; and after some time I was employed in that 
capacity by a gentleman who brought his ward to 
Paris, in order to set him forward on his tour through 
Europe. 1 was to be the young gentleman's gov- 
ernor, but with a proviso that he should always be 
permitted to govern himself My pupil in fact un- 
derstood the art of guiding in money concerns much 
better than I. He was heir to a fortune of about two 
hundred thousand pounds, left him by an uncle in 
the West Indies ; and his guardians, to qualify him for 
the management of it, had bound him an apprentice 
to an attorney. Thus avarice was his prevailing pas- 
sion : all his questions on the road were, how money 
might be saved ; which was the least expensive 
course of travel ; whether anything could be bought 
that would turn to account when disposed of again in 
London ? Such curiosities on the way as could be 
seen for nothing, he was ready enough to look at ; 
but if the sight of them was to be paid for, he usually 
asserted that he had been told they were not worth 
seeing. He never paid a bill that he would not ob- 
serve how amazingly expensive traveling was, and 
all this though he was not yet twenty-one. When 
arrived at Leghorn, as we took a walk to look at the 
port and shipping, he inquired the expense of the pas- 
sage by sea home to England. This he was in- 
formed was but a trifle compared to his returning by 



154 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

land ; he was therefore unable to withstand the temp 
tation ; so paying me the small part of my salary that 
was due, he took leave and embarked with only one 
attendant for London. 

" I now therefore was left once more upon the 
world at large ; but then it was a thing I was used to. 
However, my skill in music could avail me nothing in 
a country where every peasant was a better musician 
than I ; but by this time I had acquired another tal- 
ent which answered my purpose as well, and this was 
a skill in disputation. In all the foreign universities 
and convents there are, upon certain days, philosophi- 
cal theses maintained against every adventitious dis- 
putant ; for which, if the champion opposes with any 
dexterity, he can claim a gratuity in money, a dinner 
and a bed for one night. In this manner, therefore, 
I fought my way towards England, walked along 
from city to city, examined mankind more nearly, 
and, if I may so express it, saw both sides of the pic- 
ture. My remarks, however, are but few : I found 
that monarch }'- was the best government for the poor 
to live in, and commonwealths for the rich. I found 
that riches in general were in every country another 
name for freedom ; and that no man is so fond of lib- 
j erty himself, as not to be desirous of subjecting the 
' will of some individuals in society to his own. 

" Upon my arrival in England I resolved to pay 
my respects first to you, and then to enlist as a volun- 
teer in the first exi^edition that was going forward ; 
but on my journey down my resolutions were 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 155 

changed, by meeting an old acquaintance, who I 
found belonged to a comjDany of comedians that were 
going to make a summer campaign in the country. 
The company seemed not much to disapprove of me 
for an associate. They all, however, apprised me of 
the importance of the task at which I aimed; that 
the public was a many-headed monster, and that only 
such as had very good heads could please it ; that 
acting was not to be learned in a day, and that with- 
out some traditional shrugs, which had been on the^ 
stage, and only on the stage, these hundred years, I 
could never pretend to please. The next difficulty 
was in fitting me with parts, as almost every charac- 
ter was in keeping. I was driven for some time from 
one character to another, till at last Horatio was fixed 
upon, which the presence of the present company has 
happily hindered me from acting." 





CHAPTER XXI. 

THE SHORT CONTINUANCE OF FRIENDSHIP AMONG 
THE VICIOUS, WHICH IS COEVAL ONLY WITH 
MUTUAL SATISFACTION. 

My son's account was too long to be delivered at 
once ; the first part of it was begun that night, and 
he was concluding the rest after dinner the next day, 
when the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's equipage at 
the door seemed to make a pause in the general sat- 
isfaction. The butler, who was now become my 
friend in the family, informed me with a whisper, that 
the Squire had already made some overtures to Miss 
Wilmot, and that her aunt and uncle seemed highly 
to approve the match. Upon Mr. Thornhill's enter- 
ing, he seemed, at seeing my son and me, to start 
back ; but I readily imputed that to surprise, and not 
displeasure. However, upon our advancing to salute 
him, he returned our greeting with the most apparent 
candor ; and after a short time his presence served 
only to increase the general good humor. 

After tea he called me aside to inquire after my 
daughter; but upon my informing him that my in- 
quiry was unsuccessful, he seemed greatly surprised ; 
adding that he had been since frequently at my house 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 157 

in order to comfort the rest of my family, whom he 
left perfectly well. He then asked if I had commu- 
nicated her misfortune to Miss Wilmot or my son ; 
and upon my replying that I had not told them as 
yet, he greatly approved my prudence and precau- 
tion, desiring me by all means to keep it a secret : 
" For at best," cried he, '' it is but divulging one's 
infamy ; and perhaps Miss Livy may not be so guilty 
as we all imagine." We were interrupted by a ser- 
vant who came to ask the Squire in,, to stand up at 
country dances : so that he left me quite pleased with 
the interest he seemed to take in my concerns. His 
addresses, however, to Miss Wilmot, were too obvious 
to be mistaken : and yet she seemed not perfectly 
pleased, but bore them rather in compliance to the 
will of her aunt than real inclination. I had even 
the satisfaction to see her lavish some kind looks upon 
my unfortunate son, which the other could neither ex- 
tort by his fortune nor assiduity. Mr. Thornhill's 
seeming composure, however, not a little surprised 
me : we had now continued here a week at the press- 
mg instances of Mr. Arnold ; but each day the more 
tenderness Miss Wilmot showed my son, Mr. Thorn- 
hill's friendship seemed proportionably to increase 
for him. 

He had formerly made us the most kind assurance 
of using his interest to serve the family ; but now his 
generosity was not confined to promises alone. The 
morning I designed for my departure, Mr. Thornhill 
came to me with looks of real pleasure, to inform me 



158 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

of a piece of service he had clone for his friend George. ^ 
This was nothing less than his having procured him 
an ensign's commission in one of the regiments that 
was going to the West Indies, for which he had prom- 
ised but one hundred pounds, his interest having been 
sufficient to get an abatement of the other two. " As 
for this trifling piece of service," continued the young 
gentleman, " I desire no other reward but the pleas- 
ure of having served my friend ; and as for the hun- 
dred pounds to be 2')aid, if you are unable to raise it 
yourselves, I will advance it, and you shall repay me 
at your leisure." This was a favor we wanted words 
to express our sense of: I readily therefore gave my 
bond for the money, and testified as much gratitude 
as if I never intended to pay, 

George was to depart for town the next day to 
secure his commission, in pursuance of his generous 
patron's directions, who judged it highly expedient to 
use dispatch, least in the mean time another should 
step in with more advantageous proposals. The next 
morning therefore our young soldier was early pre- 
pared for his departure, and seemed the only person 
among us that was not affected by it. Neither the 
fatigues and dangers he was going to encounter, nor 
the friends and mistress — for Miss Wilmot actually 
loved him — he was leaving behind, any way damped 
his spirits. After he had taken leave of the rest of 
the company, I gave him all I had, my blessing. 
" And now, my boy," cried I, " thou art going to fight 
for thy country, remember how thy brave grandfather 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 159 

fought for his sacred King, when loyalty among Brit- 
ons was a virtue. Go, my boy, and imitate him in 
all but his misfortunes, if it was a misfortune to die 
with Lord Falkland. Go, my boy, and if you fall, 
though distant, exposed, and unwept by those that 
love you, the most precious tears are those with which 
heaven bedews the unburied head of a soldier.'* 

The next morning I took leave of the good family, 
that had been kind enough to entertain me so long, 
not without several expressions of gratitude to Mr. 
Thornhill for his late bounty. I left them in the en- 
joyment of all that happiness which affluence and 
good-breeding procure, and returned towards home, 
despairing of ever finding my daughter more, but 
sending a sigh to heaven to spare and forgive her. 
I was now come within about twenty miles of home, 
having hired a horse to carry me, as T was yet but 
weak, and comforted myself with the hopes of soon 
seeing all I held dearest upon earth. But the night 
coming on, I put up at a little public-house by the 
road side, and asked for the landlord's company over 
a pint of wine. We sat beside his kitchen fire, which 
was the best room in the house, and chatted on poli- 
tics and the news of the country. We happened, 
among other topics, to talk of young Squire Thorn- 
hill, who, the host assured me, was hated as much as 
his uncle Sir WilHam, who sometimes came down to 
the country, was loved. He went on to observe, that 
he made it his whole study to betray the daughters 
of such as received him to their houses, and after a 



160 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

fortnight or three weeks' possession, turned them out 
unrewarded and abandoned to the world. As we 
continued our discourse in this manner, his wife, who 
had been out to get change, returned, and perceiving 
that her husband was enjoying a pleasure in which 
she was not a sharer, she asked him in an angry tone, 
what he did there ? to which he only replied in an 
ironical way, by drinking her health. " Mr. Sym- 
monds," cried she, " you use me very ill, and I '11 bear 
it no longer. Here three parts of the business is left 
for me to do, and the fourth left unfinished ; while 
you do nothing but soak with the guests all day long; 
whereas, if a spoonful of liquor were to cure me of a 
fever, I never touch a drop." - I now found what she 
would be at, and immediately poured lier out a glass, 
which she received with a curtesy, and drinking to- 
wards my good health, " sir," resumed she, " it is not 
so much for the value of the liquor I am angry, but 
one cannot help it when the house is going out of the 
windows. If the customers or guests are to be 
dunned, all the burden lies upon my back : he 'd as 
lief eat that glass as budge after them himself. There, 
now, above stairs, we have a young woman who has 
come to take up her lodgings here, and I don't 
believe she has got any money, by her over civility. 
I am certain she is very slow of payment, and I 
wish she were put in mind of it." " What signifies 
minding her," cried the host, " if she be slow she is 
sure." " I don't know that," replied the wife; " but I 
know that I am sure she has been here a fortnight. 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 161 

and we have not yet seen the cross of her money." 
"I suppose, my dear," cried he, "we shall have it 
all in a lump." " In a lump ! " cried the other, " I 
hope we may get it any way ; and that I am resolved 
we will this very night, or out she tramps, bag and 
baggage." " Consider, my dear," cried the husband, 
" she is a gentlewoman and deserves more respect." 
"As for the matter of that," I'eturned the hostess, 
" gentle or simple, out she shall pack with a sassarara. 
Gentry may be good things where they take ; but for 
my part, I never saw much good of them at the sign 
of the Harrow." Thus saying, she ran up a narrow 
flight of stairs that went from the kitchen to a room 
over-head ; and I soon perceived, by the loudness of 
her voice, and the bitterness of her reproaches, that 
no money was to be had from her lodger. I could 
hear her remonstrances very distinctly : " Out, I say ; 
pack out this moment ! tram.p, thou infamous strumpet, 
or I '11 give thee a mark thou won't be the better for 
this three months. What, you trumpery, to come 
and take up an honest house without cross or coin to 
bless yourself with ; come along I say." " dear 
madam," cried the stranger, " pity me, pity a poor 
abandoned creature for one night, and death will soon 
do the rest." I instantly knew the voice of my poor 
ruined child Olivia. I flew to her rescue, while the 
woman was dragging her along by the hair, and I 
caught the dear forlorn wretch in my arms. " Wel- 
come, any way welcome, my dearest lost one, my 
treasure, to your poor old father's bosom ! Though 
11 



162 VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 

the vicious forsake thee, there is jet one in the world 
that will never forsake thee : though thou hadst ten 
thousand crimes to answer for, he will forget them 
all." " O my own dear," — for minutes she could 
say no more — " my own dearest good papa ! Could 
angels be kinder ! How do I deserve so much ! — The 
villain, I hate him and myself, to be a reproach to 
such goodness. You can't forgive me, I know you 
cannot." " Yes, my child, from my heart I do forgive 
thee ! Only repent, and we both shall yet be happy. 
We shall see many pleasant days yet, my Olivia ! " — 
" Ah ! never, sir, never. The rest of my wretched 
life must be infamy abroad, and shame at home. But, 
alas ! papa, you look paler than you used to do. 
Could such a thing as I am give you so much uneas- 
iness ? Surely you have too much wisdom to take the 
miseries of my guilt upon yourself." " Our wisdom, 
young woman," replied I. " Ah, why so cold a 
name,' papa? " cried she. " This is the first time you 
ever called me by so cold a name." " I ask pardon, 
my darling," returned I : " but I was going to observe, 
that wisdom makes but a slow defence against trouble, 
though at last a sure one." The landlady now re- 
turned to know if we did not choose a more genteel 
apartment ; to which assenting, we were shown a 
room where we could converse more freely. After 
we had talked ourselves into some degree of tran- 
quillity, I could not avoid desiring some account of 
the gradations that led to her present wretched 
situation. " That villain, sir," said she, " from the 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 163 

first day of our meeting, made me honorable though 
private proposals." 

" Villain, indeed ! " cried I ; " and yet it in some 
measure surprises me, how a person of Mr. Burchell's 
good sense and seeming honor could be guilty of such 
deliberate baseness, and thus step into a family to 
undo it." 

" My dear papa," returned my daughter, " you 
labor under a strange mistake. Mr. Burchell never 
attempted to deceive me ; instead of that, he took 
every opportunity of privately admonishing me 
against the artifices of JVIr. Thornhill, who I now find 
was even worse than he represented him." " Mr. 
Thornhill," interrupted T; "can it be?" "Yes, sir," 
returned she ; " it was Mr. Thornhill who seduced 
me ; who employed the two ladies, as he called them, 
but who in fact were abandoned women of the town, 
without breeding or pity, to decoy us up to London. 
Their artifices, you may remember, would have cer- 
tainly succeeded, but for Mr. Burchell's letter, who 
directed those reproaches at them, which we all ap- 
plied to ourselves. How he came to have so much 
influence as to defeat their intentions, still remains a 
secret to me ; but I am convinced he was ever our 
warmest, sincerest friend." 

" You amaze me, my dear," cried I ; " but now I 
find my first suspicions of Mr. Thornhill's baseness 
were too well grounded : but he can triumph in se- 
curity, for he is rich, and we are poor. But tell me, 
my child, sure it was no small temptation that could 



164 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

thus obliterate all tlie impressions of such an educa- 
tion, and so virtuous a disposition as thine?" 

" Indeed, sir," replied she, " he owes all his triumph 
to the desire I had of making him, and not myself, 
happy. I knew that the ceremony of our marriage, 
which was privately performed b}^ a popish priest, was 
no way binding, and that I had nothing to trust to 
but his honor." " What! " interrupted I, " and were 
3^ou indeed married by a priest, and in orders?" 
" Indeed, sir, we were," replied she, " though we were 
both sworn to conceal his name." "Wliy, then, my 
child, come to my arms again : and now you are a 
thousand times more welcome than before ; for you 
are now his wife to all intents and purposes : nor can 
all the laws of man, though written upon tables of 
adamant, lessen the force of that sacred connection." 

" Alas, papa," replied she, " you are but little ac- 
quainted with his villainies ; he has been married 
already by the same priest to six or eight wives more, 
whom, like me, he has deceived and abandoned." 

" Has he so ? " cried I, " then we must hang the 
priest, and you shall inform against him to-morrow." 
— " But, sir," returned she, " will that be right, when 
I am sworn to secresy ? " " My dear," I replied, 
'' if you have made such a promise, I cannot, nor will 
I tempt you to break it. Even though it may benefit 
the public, you must not inform against him. In all 
human institutions a smaller evil is allowed to procure 
a greater good; as, in politics, a province may be 
given to secure a kingdom ; in medicine, a limb may 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 165 

be lopt off to preserve the body : but in religion, the 
law is written, and inflexible, never to do evil. And 
this law, my child, is right ; for otherwise, if we com- 
mit a smaller evil to procure a greater good, certain 
guilt would be thus incurred, in expectation of con- 
tingent advantage. And though the advantage should 
certainly follow, yet the interval between commission 
and advantage, which is allowed to be guilty, may be 
that in which we are called away to answer for the 
things we have done, and the volume of human ac- 
tions is closed forever. But I interrupt you, my 
dear; go on." 

"The very next morning," continued she, " I found 
what little expectation I was to have from his sin- 
cerity. That very morning he introduced me to two 
unhappy women more, whom, like me, he had de- 
ceived, but who lived in contented prostitution. I 
loved him too tenderly to bear such rivals in his affec- 
tions, and strove to forget my infamy in a tumult of 
pleasures. With this view I danced, dressed, and 
talked ; but still was unhappy. The gentlemen who 
visited there told me every moment of the power of 
my charms, and this only contributed to increase my 
malancholy, as I had thrown all their power quite 
away. Thus each day I grew more pensive, and he 
more insolent, till at last the monster had the assur- 
ance to offer me to a young Baronet of his acquaint- 
ance. Need I describe, sir, how his ingratitude stung 
me ? My answer to this proposal was almost madness. 
I desired to part. As I was going, he offered me a 



166 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

purse ; but I flung it at him with iudignation, and 
burst from him in a rage, that for a while kept me 
insensible of the miseries of my situation. But I 
soon looked round me, and saw myself a vile, abject, 
guilty thing, without one friend in the world to ap- 
ply to. Just in that interval, a stage coach happen- 
ing to pass by, I took a place, it being my only aim 
to be driven at a distance from a wretch I despised 
and detested. I was set down here, where, since my 
arrival, my own anxiety and this woman's unkindness 
have been my only companions. The hours of pleas- 
ure that I have passed with my mamma and sister, 
now grow painful to me. Their sorrows are much ; 
but mine are greater than theirs, for mine are mixed 
with guilt and infamy." 

" Have patience, my child," cried I, "and I hope 
things will yet be better. Take some repose to-night, 
and to-morrow I '11 carry you home to your mother 
and the rest of the family, from whom you will re- 
ceive a kind reception. Poor woman ! this has gone 
to her heart : but she loves you still, Olivia, and will 
forget it." 





CHAPTER XXII. 

OFFENCES AKE EASILY PARDONED WHERE THERE 
IS LOVE AT BOTTOM. 

The next morning I took my daughter behind me, 
and set out on my return home. As we traveled 
along, I strove by every persuasion to calm her sor- 
rows and fears, and to arm her with resolution to 
bear the presence of her offended mother. I took 
every opportunity, from the prospect of a fine coun- 
tey, through which we passed, to observe how much 
kinder Heaven was to us than we are to each other, 
and that the misfortunes of nature's making were very 
few. I assured her that she should never perceive 
any change in my affections, and that during my life, 
which yet might be long, she might depend upon a 
guardian and instructor. I armed her against the 
censures of the world, showed her that books were 
sweet unreproaching companions to the miserable, 
.and that if they could not bring us to enjoy life, they 
would at least teach us to endure it. 

The hired horse that we rode was to be put up 
that night at an inn by the way, within about five 
miles from my house ; and as I was willing to pre- 
pare my family for my daughter's reception, I deter- 



168 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

mined to leave her that night at the inn, and to re- 
turn for her, accompanied by my daughter Sophia, 
early the next morning. It was night before we 
reached our appointed stage ; however, after seeing 
her provided with a decent apartment, and having 
ordered the hostess to prepare proper refreshments, I 
kissed her, and proceeded towards home. And now 
my heart caught new sensations of pleasure the 
nearer I approached that peaceful mansion. As a 
bird that had been frighted from its nest, my affec- 
tions outwent my haste, and hovered round my little 
fireside with all the rapture of expectation. I called 
up the many fond things I had to say, and antici- 
pated the welcome I was to receive. I already felt 
my wife's tender embrace, and smiled at the joy of 
my little ones. As I walked but slowly, the night 
waned apace. The laborers of the day were all re- 
tired to rest ; the lights were out in every cottage ; 
no sounds were heard but of the shrilling cock, and 
the deep-mouthed watch-dog at hollow distance. I 
approached my little abode of pleasure, and before I 
was within a furlong of the place, our honest mastiff 
came running to welcome me. 

" It was now near midnight that I came to knock 
at my door ; all was still and silent ; my heart dilated 
with unutterable happiness, when, to my amazement, 
I saw the house bursting out in a blaze of fire, and 
every aperture red with conflagration ! I gave a 
loud convulsive outcry, and fell upon the pavement 
insensible. This alarmed my son, who had till this 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 169 

been asleep, and he perceiving the flames, instantly- 
waked my wife and daughter ; and all running out, 
naked, and wiJd with apprehension, recalled me to 
life with their anguish. But it was only to see ob- 
jects of new terror ; for the flames had by this time 
caught the roof of our dwelling, part after part con- 
tinuing to fail in, while the family stood with silent 
agony, looking on as if they enjoyed the blaze. I 
gazed upon them and upon it by turns, and then 
looked round me for my two little ones ; but they 
were not to be seen. misery ! " Where," cried 1, 
" where are my two little ones ? " " They are burnt 
to death in the flames," says my wife, calmly, " and I 
will die with them." That moment I heard the cry 
of the babes within, who were just awaked by the 
fire, and nothing could have stopped me. " Where, 
where are my children?" cried I, rushing through 
the flames, and bursting the door of the chamber in 
which they were confined; "Where are my little 
ones ? " " Here, dear papa, here we are," cried they 
together, while the flames were just catching the bed 
where they lay. I caught them both in my arms, 
and snatched them through the fire as fast as possi- 
ble, while, just as I was got out, the roof sunk in. 
" Now," cried I, holding up my children, " now let 
the flames burn on, and all my possessions perish. 
Here they are ; I have saved my treasure. Here, 
my dearest, here are our treasures, and we shall yet 
be happy." We kissed our little darlings a thousand 
times ; they clasped us round the neck, and seemed 



170 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

to share our transports, while the mother laughed 
and wept by turns. 

I now stood a calm spectator of the flames, and 
after some time began to perceive that my arm to 
the shoulder was scorched in a terrible manner. It 
was therefore out of my power to give my son any 
assistance, either in attempting to save our goods, or 
preventing the flames spreading to our corn. By 
this time the neighbors were alarmed, and came run- 
ning to our assistance ; but all they could do was to 
stand like us, spectators of the calamity. My goods, 
among which were the notes I had reserved for my 
daughters' fortunes, were entirely consumed, except a 
box w^ith some papers that stood in the kitchen, and 
two or three things more of little consequence, which 
my son brought away in the beginning. The neigh- 
bors contributed, however, what they could to lighten 
our distress. They brought us clothes, and furnished 
one of our out-houses with kitchen utensils ; so that 
by day-light we had another, though a wretched 
dwelling, to retire to. My honest next neighbor and 
his children were not the least assiduous in providing 
us with everything necessary, and offering whatever 
consolation untutored benevolence could suggest. 

When the fears of my family had subsided, curi- 
osity to know the cause of my long stay began to 
take place ; having therefore informed them of every 
particular, I proceeded to prepare for the reception 
of our lost one, and though we had nothing but 
wretchedness now to impart, I was willing to procure 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 171 

her a welcome to what we had. This task would 
have been more difficult but for our recent calamity, 
which had humbled my wife's pride, and blunted it 
by more poignant afflictions. Being unable lo go for 
my poor child myself, as my arm grew very painful, 
I sent my son and daughter who soon returned, sup- 
porting the wretched delinquent, who had not the 
courage to look up at her mother, whom no instruc- 
tions of mine could persuade to a perfect reconcilia- 
tion ; for women have a much stronger sense of 
female error than men. "Ah, madam," cried her 
mother, " this is but a poor place you are come to 
after so much finery. My daughter Sophy and I can 
afford but little entertainment to persons who have 
kept company only with people of distinction. Yes, 
Miss Livy, your poor father and I have suffered very 
much of late ; but I hope Heaven will forgive you." 
During this reception, the unhappy victim stood pale 
and trembling, unable to weep or to reply ; but I 
could not continue a silent spectator of her distress ; 
wherefore, assuming a degree of severity in my voice 
and manner, which was ever followed with instant 
submission, " I entreat, woman, that my words may 
be now marked once for all ; I have here brought 
you back a poor deluded wanderer : her return to 
duty demands the revival of our tenderness. The 
real hardships of life are now coming fast upon us ; 
let us not, therefore, increase them by dissension 
among each other. If we live harmoniously together, 
we may yet be contented, as there are enough of us 



172 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

to shut out the censuring world, and keep each other 
in countenance. The kindness of Heaven is prom- 
ised to the penitent, and let ours be directed by the 
example. Heaven, we are assured, is much more 
pleased to view a repentant sinner, than ninety-nine 
persons who have supported a course of undeviating 
rectitude. And this is right; for that single effort 
by which we stop short in the down-hill path to per- 
dition, is itself a greater exertion of virtue than a 
hundred acts of justice." 





CHAPTER XXIII. 

NONE BUT THE GUILTY CAN BE LONG AND COM- 
PLETELY MISERABLE. 

Some assiduity was now required to make our pres- 
ent abode as convenient as possible, and we were 
soon again qualified to enjoy our former serenity. 
Being disabled myself from assisting my son in our 
usual occupations, I read to my family the few books 
that were saved, and particularly- from such as, by 
amusing the imagination, contributed to ease the 
heart. Our good neighbors, too, came every day 
with the kindest condolence, and fixed a time in 
which they were all to assist at reparing my former 
dwelling. Honest farmer Williams was not last 
amiong' these visitors ; but heartily offered his friend- 
ship. He would even have renewed his addresses to 
my daughter ; but she rejected him in such a manner 
as totally rep rest his future solicitations. Her grief 
seemed formed for continuing, and she was the only 
person of our little society that a week did not restore 
to cheerfulness. She had now lost that unblushing 
innocence which once taught her to respect herself 
and to seek pleasure by pleasing. Anxiety now had 
taken possession of her mind ; her beauty began to 



174 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

be impaired with her constitution, and neglect still 
more contributed to diminish it. Every tender ejDi- 
thet bestowed on her sister, brought a pang to her 
heart, and a tear to her eye ; and as one vice, though 
cured, ever plants others where it has been, so her 
former guilt, though driven out by repentance, left 
jealousy and envy behind. I strove a thousand 
ways to lessen her care, and even forgot my own 
pain in a concern for hers, collecting such amusing 
passages of history as a strong memory and some 
reading could suggest. " Our happiness, my dear," 
I would say, " is in the power of one who can bring 
it about a thousand unforeseen ways that mock our 
foresight. If example be neccessary to prove this, 
I '11 give you a story, my child, told us by a grave, 
though sometimes a romancinoj historian. 

" Matilda was married very young to a Neapolitan 
nobleman of the first quality, and found herself a 
widow and a mother at the age of fifteen. As she 
stood one day caressing her infant son in the open 
window of an apartment which hung over the river 
Volturna, the child with a sudden spring leaped from 
her arms into the flood below, and disappeared in a 
moment. The mother, struck with instant surprise, 
and making an effort to save him, plunged in after ; 
but far from being able to assist the infant, she her- 
self with great difficulty escaped to the opposite shore, 
just when some French soldiers were plundering the 
country on that side, who immediately made her their 
prisoner. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 175 

"As the war was then carried on between the 
French and Italians with the utmost inhumanity, 
they were going at once to perpetrate those two ex- 
tremes suggested by appetite and cruelty. This base 
resolution, however, was opposed by a young officer, 
who, though their retreat required the utmost expedi- 
tion, placed her behind him, and brought her in safety 
to his native city. Her beauty at first caught his 
eye, her merit soon after his heart. They were mar- 
ried : he rose to the highest posts ; they lived long 
together, and were happy. But the felicity of a sol- 
dier can never be called permanent : after an interval 
of several years, the troops which he commanded 
having met with a repulse, he was obliged to take 
shelter in the city where he had lived with his wife. 
Here they suffered a siege, and the city at length was 
taken. Few histories can produce more various in- 
stances of cruelty than those which the French and 
Italians at that time exercised upon each other. It 
was resolved by the victors, upon this occasion, to put 
all the French prisoners to death; but particularly 
the husband of the unfortunate Matilda, as he was 
principally instrumental in protracting the siege. 
Their determinations were in general executed almost 
as soon as resolved upon. The captive soldier was 
led forth, and the executioner with his sword stood 
ready, while the spectators in gloomy silence awaited 
the fatal blow, which was only suspended till the gen- 
eral, who presided as judge, should give the signal. 
It was in this interval of anguish and expectation that 



176 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

Matilda came to take her last farewell of her husband 
and deliverer, deploring her wretched situation, and 
the cruelty of fate, that had saved her from perishing 
by a premature death in the river Volturna, to be the 
spectator of still greater calamities. The general, 
who was a young man, was struck with surprise at 
her beauty, and pity at her distress ; but with still 
stronger emotions when he heard her mention her 
former dangers. He was her son, the infant for 
whom she had encountered so much danger. He 
acknowledged her at once as his mother, and fell at 
her feet. The rest may be easily supposed : the cap- 
tive was set free, and all the happiness that love, 
friendship, and duty, could confer on each, were 
united." 

In this manner I would attempt to amuse my 
daughter : but she listened with divided attention ; 
for her own misfortunes engrossed all the pity she 
once had for those of another, and nothing gave her 
ease. In company she dreaded contempt; and in 
solitude she only found anxiety. Such was the color 
of her wretchedness, w^hen we received certain infor- 
mation that Mr. Thornhill was going to be married 
to Miss Wilmot, for whom I always suspected he had 
a real passion, though lie took every opportunity 
before me to express his contempt both of her person 
and fortune. This news only served to increase poor 
Olivia's affliction : such a flagrant breach of fidelity 
was more than her courage could support. I was 
resolved, however, to get more certain information. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 177 

and to defeat, if possible, tlie completion of his de- 
signs, by sending my son to old Mr. Wilmot's with 
instructions to know the truth of the report, and to 
deliver Miss Wilmot a letter, intimating Mr. Thorn- 
hill's conduct in my family. My son went in pur- 
suance of my directions, and in three days returned 
assuring us of the truth of the account ; but that he 
had found it impossible to deliver the letter, which he 
was therefore obliged to leave, as Mr. Thornhill and 
Miss Wilmot were visiting round the country. They 
were to be married, he said, in a few days, having 
appeared together at church the Sunday before he 
was there, in great splendor, the bride attended by 
six young ladies, and he by as many gentlemen. 
Their approaching nuptials filled the whole country 
with rejoicing, and they usually rode out together in 
the grandest equipage that had been seen in the 
country for many years. All the friends of both 
families, he said, were there, particularly the Squire's 
uncle. Sir William Thornhill, who bore so good a 
character. He added that nothing but mirth and 
feasting were going forward; that all the country 
praised the young bride's beauty, and the bride- 
groom's fine person, and that they were immensely 
fond of each other : concluding, that he could not 
help thinking Mr. Thornhill one of the most happy 
men in the world. 

" Why, let him live if he can," returned I ; " but, 
my son, observe this bed of straw, and unsheltering 
roof ; those mouldering walls, and humid floor ; my 
12 



178 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

wretched body thus disabled by fire, and my chil- 
dren weeping round me for bread; you have come 
home, my child, to all this ; yet here, even here, you 
see a man that would not for a thousand worlds ex- 
change situations. O, my children, if you could but 
learn to commune with your own hearts, and know 
what noble company you can make them, you will 
little regard the elegance and splendor of the worth- 
less. Almost all men have been taught to call life a 
passage, and themselves the travelers. The simili- 
tude still may be improved, when we observe that 
the good are joyful and serene, like travelers that 
are going towards home : the wicked but by intervals 
happy, like travelers that are going into exile." 

My compassion for my poor daughter, overpowered 
by this new disaster, interrupted what I had farther 
to observe. I bade her mother support her, and 
after a short time she recovered. She appeared from 
that time more calm, and I imagined had gained a 
new degree of resolution ; but appearances deceived 
me ; for her tranquillity was the languor of over- 
wrought resentment. A supply of provisions, charita- 
bly sent us by my kind parishioners, seemed to diffuse 
new cheerfulness among the rest of the family, nor 
was I displeased at seeing them once more sprightly 
and at ease. It would have been unjust to damp their 
satisfactions, merely to condole with resolute melan- 
choly, or to burden them with a sadness they did not 
feel. Thus once more the tale went round and the 
song was demanded, and cheerfulness condescended 
to hover round our little habitation. 




CHAPTER XXIV. 

FRESH CALAMITIES. 

The next morning the sun arose with peculiar 
warmth for the season, so that we agreed to break- 
fast together on the honey-suckle bank ; where, 
while we sat, my youngest daughter at my request 
joined her voice to the concert on the trees about us. 
It was in this place that my poor Olivia first met her 
seducer, and every object served to recall her sadness. 
But that melancholy which is excited by objects of 
pleasure, or inspired by sounds of harmony, soothes 
the heart instead of corroding it. Her mother, too 
upon this occasion, felt a pleasing distress, and wept, 
and loved her daughter as before. " Do, my pretty 
Olivia," cried she, " let us have that little melancholy 
air your papa was so fond of ; your sister Sophy has 
already obliged us. Do, child, it will please your old 
father." She complied in a manner so exquisitely 
pathetic as moved us. 

When lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray; 

What charm can soothe her melancholy, 
What art can wash her guilt away ? 



180 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

The only art lier gnilt to cover, 
To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover. 
And wring his bosom — is to die. 

As she was concluding the last stanza, to which an 
interruption in her voice from sorrow gave peculiar 
softness, the appearance of Mr. Thornhill's equipage 
at a distance alarmed us all, but particularly increased 
the uneasiness of my eldest daughter, who, desirous 
of shunning her betrayer, returned to the house with 
her sister. In a few minutes he was alighted from 
his chariot, and making up to the place where I was 
still sitting, inquired after my health with his usual 
air of familiarity. " Sir," replied I, " your present 
assurance only serves to aggravate the baseness of 
your character ; and there was a time when I would 
have chastised your insolence for presuming thus to 
appear before me. But now you are safe ; for age has 
cooled my passions, and my calling restrains them." 

"• I vow, my dear sir," returned he, " I am amazed 
at all this ; nor can I understand what it means ! I 
hope you don't think your daughter's late excursion 
with me had anything criminal in it? " 

" Go," cried I, " thou art a wretch, a poor pitiful 
wretch, and every way a liar ; but your meanness se- 
cures you from my anger ! Yet, sir, I am descended 
from a family that would not have borne this ! And 
so, thou vile thing, to gratify a momentary passion, 
thou hast made one poor creature wretched for life, 
and polluted a family that had nothing but honor for 
their portion ! " 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 181 

" If she or you," returned he, '' are resolved to be 
miserable, I cannot help it. But you may still be 
happy ; and whatever opinion you may have formed 
of me, you shall ever find me ready to contribute to 
it. We can marry her to another in a short time, 
and what is more, she may keep her lover beside ; for 
I protest I shall ever continue to have a true regard 
for her." 

I found all my passions alarmed at this new degrad- 
ing proposal ; for though the mind may often be calm 
under great injuries, little villainy can at any time 
get within the soul, and sting it into rage. " Avoid 
my sight, thou reptile ! " cried I, " nor continue to 
insult me with thy presence, Were my brave son at 
home he would not suffer this ; but I am old and dis- 
abled, and every way undone." 

" I find," cried he, " you are bent upon obliging me 
to talk in a harsher manner than I intended. But 
as I have shown you what may be hoped from my 
friendship, it may not be improper to represent what 
may be the consequences of my resentment. My 
attorney, to whom your late bond has been trans- 
ferred, threatens hard, nor do I know how to prevent 
the course of justice, except by paying the money my- 
self, which, as I have been at some expenses lately, 
previous to my intended marriage, is not so easily to 
be done. And then my steward talks of driving ^ for 

1 An Irish term, descriptive of the mode which a landlord in 
that countr}'- takes to enforce payment from a tenant; and with 
some others wonld sufficiently indicate the country of the writer, 
did we not otherwise know it. 



182 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

the rent : it is certain he knows his duty ; for I never 
trouble myself with affairs of that nature. Yet still 
I could wish to serve you, and even to have you and 
your daughter present at my marriage, which is 
shortly to be solemnized with Miss Wilmot; it is even 
the request of my charming Arabella herself, whom I 
hope you will not refuse." 

" Mr. Thorn hill," replied I, " hear me once for all : 
As to your marriage with (xny but my daughter, that I 
never will consent to ; and though your friendship 
could raise me to a throne, or resentment sink me to 
the grave, yet would I despise both. Thou hast once 
wofully, irreparably deceived me. I reposed my heart 
upon thine honor, and have found its baseness. 
Never more therefore expect friendship from me. 
Go and possess what fortune has given thee, beauty, 
riches, health, and pleasure. Go, and leave me to 
want, infamy, disease, and sorrow. Yet, humbled as 
T am, shall my heart still vindicate its dignity ; and 
though thou hast my forgiveness, thou shalt ever have 
my contempt." 

" If so," returned he, " depend upon it you shall 
feel the effects of tliis insolence ; and we shall shortly 
see which is the fittest object of scorn, you or me." 
Upon which he departed abruptly. 

My wife and son, who were present at this inter- 
view, seemed terrified with the apprehension. My 
daughters, also finding that he was gone, came out to 
be informed of the result of our conference, which, 
when known, alarmed them not less than the rest. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 183 

But as to myself, I disregarded the utmost stretch of 
his malevolence : he had already struck the blow, and 
now I stood prepared to repel every new effort ; like 
one of those instruments used in the art of war, 
which, however thrown, still presents a point to re- 
ceive the enemy. 

We soon, however, found that he had not threat- 
ened in vain ; for the very next morning his steward 
came to demand my annual rent, which, by the train 
of accidents already related, I was unable to pay. 
The consequence of my incapacity was his driving my 
cattle that evening, and their being appraised and sold 
the next day for less than half their value. My wife 
and children now therefore entreated me to comply 
upon any terms, rather than incur certain destruction. 
They even begged of me to admit his visits once 
more, and used all their little eloquence to paint the 
calamities I was going to endure ; the terrors of a 
prison in so rigorous a season as the present, with the 
danger that threatened my health from the late acci- 
dent that happened by the fire. But I continued in- 
flexible. 

" Why, my treasures," cried I, " why will you thus 
attempt to persuade me to the thing that is not right ? 
My duty has taught me to forgive him ; but my con- 
science will not permit me to approve. Would you 
have me applaud to the world, what my heart must 
internally condemn ? Would you have me tamely sit 
down and flatter our infamous betrayer ; and, to avoid 
a prison, continually suffer the more galling bonds of 



184 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

mental confinement ? No, never. If we are to be 
taken from this abode, only let us hold to the right ; 
and wherever we are thrown, we can still retire to a 
charming apartment, when we can look round our 
own hearts with intrepidity and with pleasure ! " 

In this manner we spent that evening. Early the 
next morning, as the snow had fallen in great abun- 
dance in the night, my son was employed in clearing 
it away, and opening a passage before the door. He 
had not been thus engaged long, w^hen he came 
running in, with looks all pale, to tell us that two 
strangers, whom he knew to be officers of justice, 
were making towards the house. 

Just as he spake they came in, and approaching 
the bed where I lay, after previously informing me 
of their employment and business, made me their 
prisoner, bidding me prepare to go with them to the 
county jail, which was eleven miles off. 

" My friends," said I, " this is severe weather in 
which you have come to take me to a prison ; and it 
is particularly unfortunate at this time, as one of my 
arms has lately been burnt in a terrible manner, and 
it has thrown me into a slight fever, and I want 
clothes to cover me ; and I am now too weak and 
old to walk far in such deep snow ; but if it must be 
so" — 

I then turned to my wife and children, and directed 
them to get together what few things were left us, 
and to prepare immediately for leaving this place. I 
entreated them to be expeditious, and desired my son 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 185 

to assist his eldest sister, who, from a consciousness 
that she was the cause of all our calamities, was fallen, 
and had lost anguish in. insensibility. I encouraged 
my wife, who, pale and trembling, clasped our af- 
frighted little ones in her arms, that clung to her 
bosom in silence, dreading to look round at the 
strangers. In the mean time my youngest daughter 
prepared for our departure, and as she received sev- 
eral hints to use dispatch, in about an hour we were 
ready to depart. 





CHAPTER XXV. 

NO SITUATION, HOWEVER WRETCHED IT SEEMS, BUT 
HAS SOME SORT OF COMFORT ATTENDING IT. 

We set forward from this peaceful neighborhood, 
and walked on slowly. My eldest daughter being 
enfeebled by a slow fever, which had begun for some 
days to undermine her constitution, one of the officers, 
who had a horse, kindly took her behind him ; for 
even these men cannot entirely divest themselves of 
humanity. My son led one of the little ones by the 
hand, and my wife the other, while I leaned upon my 
youngest girl, whose tears fell not for her own but 
my distresses. 

AVe were now got from my late dwelling about 
two miles, when we saw a crowd running and shout- 
ing behind us, consisting of about fifty of my poorest 
parishioners. These, with dreadful imprecations, 
soon seized upon the two officers of justice, and 
swearing they would never see their minister go to 
jail while they had a drop of blood to shed in his de- 
fence, were going to use them with the greatest 
severity. The consequence might have been fatal 
had I not immediately interposed, and with some 
difficulty rescued the officers from the hands of the 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 187 

enraged multitude. My children who looked upon 
my delivery now as certain, appeared transported 
with joy, and were incapable of containing their rap- 
tures. But they were soon undeceived, upon hearing 
me address the poor deluded people, who came, as 
they imagined to do me service. 

" What ! my friends," cried I, " and is this the way 
you love me ? Is this the manner you obey the in- 
structions I have given you from the pulpit ? Thus 
to fly in the face of justice, and bring down ruin on 
yourselves and me ? Which is your ringleader ? 
Show me the man that has thus seduced you. As sure 
as he lives he shall feel my resentment. Alas ! my 
dear deluded flock, return back to the duty you owe 
to God, to your country and to me. I shall yet per- 
haps one day see you in greater felicity here, and 
contribute to make your lives more happy. But let 
it at least be my comfort when I pen my fold for 
immortality, that not one here shall be wanting." 

They now seemed all repentance, and melting into 
tears, came one after the other to bid me farewell. I 
shook each tenderly by the hand, and leaving them 
my blessing, proceeded forward without meeting any 
farther interruption. Some hours before night we 
reached the town or rather village, for it consisted 
but of a few mean houses, having lost all its former 
opulence, and retaining no marks of its ancient supe- 
riority but the jail. 

Upon entering we put up at the inn, where we had 
such refreshments as could most readily be procured, 



188 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

and I supped with my family with my usual cheerful- 
ness. After seeing them properly accommodated for 
that night, I next attended the sheriff's officers to the 
prison, which had formerly been built for the pur- 
poses of war, and consisted of one large apartment, 
strongly grated and paved with stone, common to 
both felons and debtors at certain hours in the four- 
-and-twenty. Besides this, every prisoner had a sep- 
arate cell, where he was locked in for the night. 

I expected upon my entrance to find nothing but 
lamentations and various sounds of misery; but it 
was very different. The prisoners seemed all em- 
ployed in one common design, that of forgetting 
thought in merriment or clamor. I was apprised of 
the usual perquisite required upon these occasions, 
and immediately complied with the demand, though 
the little money I had was very near being all ex- 
hausted. This was immediately sent away for liquor, 
and the whole prison soon was filled with riot, laugh- 
ter, and profaneness. 

" How," cried I to myself, " shall men so very 
wicked be cheerful, and shall I be melancholy ; I feel 
only the same confinement with them, and I think I 
have more reason to be happy." 

With such reflections I labored to become cheer- 
ful ; but cheerfulness was never yet produced by 
effort which is itself painful. As I was sitting there- 
fore in a corner of the jail, in a pensive posture, one 
of my fellow-prisoners came up, and sitting by me, 
entered into conversation. It was my constant rule 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 189 

in life never to avoid the conversation of any man 
who seemed to desire it : for if good I might profit 
by his instruction ; if bad, he might be assisted by 
mine. I found this to be a knowing man, of strong 
unlettered sense, but a thorough knowledge of the 
world, as it was called, or more properly speaking, 
of human nature on the wrong side. He asked me 
if I had taken care to provide myself with a bed, 
which was a circumstance I had never once attended 
to. 

" That 's unfortunate," cried he, " as you are allowed 
here nothing but straw, and your apartment is very 
large and cold. However, you seem to be something 
of a gentleman, and as I have been one myself in my 
time, part of my bed-clothes are heartily at your ser- 
vice." 

I thanked him, professing my surjDrise at finding 
such humanity in a jail in misfortunes ; adding, to 
let him see that I was a scholar, " That the sage an- 
cient seemed to understand the value of company in 
affliction, when he said. Ton kosmon aire, ei dos ton 
etairon ; and in fact," continued I, " >yhat is the world 
if it affords only solitude ? " 

" You talk of the world, sir," returned my fellow- 
prisoner : " the world is in its dotage ; and yet the cos- 
mogony or creation of the world has puzzled the philos- 
ophers of every age. What a medley of opinions have 
they not broached upon the creation of the world! San- 
choniathon, 3Ianetho, Berosiis, and Ocellus Lucanus, 
have all attempted it in vain. T/ie latter has these 



190 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

words, Anarchon ara kai atelutaion to pan, winch im- 
plies " — "I ask pardon, sir," cried I, " for interrupt- 
ing so much learning ; but I think I have heard all this 
before. Have I not had the pleasure of once seeing 
you at Welbridge fair, and is not your name Ephraim 
Jenkinson ? " At this demand he only sighed. " I 
suppose you must recollect," resumed I, " one Doctor 
Primrose, from whom you bought a horse ?" 

He now at once recollected me ; for the gloominess 
of the place and the approaching night had prevented 
his distinguishing my features before. "Yes, sir," 
returned Mr. Jenkinson, " I remember you perfectly 
well ; I bought a horse, but forgot to pay for him. 
Your neighbor Flamborough is the only prosecutor I 
am any way afraid of at the next assizes : for he in- 
tends to swear positively against me as a coiner. I 
am heartily sorry, sir, I ever deceived you, or indeed 
any man ; for you see," continued he, showing his 
shackles, " what my tricks have brought me to." 

" Well, sir," replied I, " your kindness in offering 
me assistance when you could expect no return, shall 
be repaid with my endeavors to soften or totally sup- 
press Mr. Flamborough's evidence, and I will send 
my son to him for that purpose the first opportunity ; 
nor do I in the least doubt but he will comply with 
my request ; and as to my own evidence, you need be 
under no uneasiness about that." 

" Well, sir," cried he, " all the return I can make 
shall be yours. You shall have more than half my 
bed-clothes to-night, and I '11 take care to stand your 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 191 

friend in tlie prison, where I think I have some in- 
fluence." 

I thanked him, and could not avoid being surprised 
at the present youthful change in his aspect ; for at 
the time I had seen him before, he appeared at least 
sixty. " Sir," answered he, " you are little acquainted 
with the world ; I had at that time false hair, and 
have learned the art of counterfeiting every age from 
seventeen to seventy. Ah ! sir, had I but bestowed 
half the pains in learning a trade, that I have in learn- 
ing to be a scoundrel, I might have been a rich man 
at this day. But rogue as I am, still I may be your 
friend, and that perhaps when you least expect it." 

We were now prevented from further conversation 
by the arrival of the jailer's servants, who came to 
call over the prisoners' names, and lock up for the 
night. A fellow also with a bundle of straw for my 
bed attended, who led me along a dark narrow pas- 
sage into a room paved like the common prison, and 
in one corner of this I spread my bed, and the clothes 
given me by my fellow-prisoner; which done, my 
conductor, who was civil enough, bade me a good 
night. After my usual meditations, and having 
praised my Heavenly Corrector, I laid myself down, 
and slept with the utmost tranquillity till morning. 



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CHAPTER XXVI. 



A REFORMATION IN THE JAIL. TO MAKE LAWS 

COMPLETE, THEY SHOULD REWARD AS WELL AS 
PUNISH. 

The next morning early I was awakened by my 
family, whom I found in tears at my bedside. The 
gloomy strength of everything about us, it seems, had 
daunted them. I gently rebuked their sorrow, as- 
suring them I had never slept with greater tran- 
quillity, and next inquired after my eldest daughter, 
who was not among them. They informed me that 
yesterday's uneasiness and fatigue had increased her 
fever, and it was judged proper to leave her behind. 
My next care was to send my son to procure a room 
or two to lodge the family in, as near the prison as 
conveniently could be found. He obeyed ; but could 
only find one apartment, which was hired at a small 
expense for his mother and sisters, the jailer with 
humanity consenting to let him and his two brothers 
lie in the prison with me. A bed was therefore pre- 
pared for them in a corner of the room, which I 
thought answered very conveniently. I was willing, 
however, previously to know whether my little chil- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 193 

dren chose to lie in a place which seemed to fright ■ 
them upon entrance. 

" Well," cried I, " my good boys, how do you like 
your bed? I hope you are not afraid to lie in this 
room, dark as it appears ? " 

" No, papa," says Dick, " I am not afraid to lie 
anywhere where you are." 

" And I," says Bill, who was yet but four years 
old, " love every place best that my papa is in." 

After this I allotted to each of the family what 
they were to do. My daughter was particularly di- 
rected to watch her declining sister's health; my 
wife was to attend to me ; my little boys were to read 
to me. " And as for you, my son," continued I, " it 
is by the labor of your hands we must all hope to be 
supported. Your wages as a day -laborer will be fully 
sufficient, with proper frugality, to maintain us all, 
and comfortably too. Thou art now sixteen years 
old, and hast strength ; and it was given thee, my son, 
for very useful purposes ; for it must save from fam- 
ine your helpless parents and family. Prepare, then, 
this evening to look out for work against to-morrow, 
and bring home every night what money you earn 
for our support." 

Having thus instructed him, and settled the rest, I 
walked down to the common prison, where I could 
enjoy more air and room. But I was not long there 
when the execrations, lewdness, and brutality, that 
invaded me on every side, drove me back to my 
apartment again. Here I sat for some time ponder- 
13 



194: VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

ing upon the strange infatuation of wretches, who, 
finding all mankind in open arms against them, were 
laboring to make themselves a future and a tremend- 
ous enemy. 

Their insensibility excited my highest compassion, 
and blotted my own uneasiness from my mind. It 
even appeared a duty incumbent upon me to attempt 
to reclaim them. I resolved, therefore, once more to 
return, and, in spite of their contempt, to give them 
my advice, and conquer them by perseverance. Go- 
ing, therefore, among them again, I informed INIr. 
Jenkinson of my design, at which he laughed, but 
communicated it to the rest. The proposal was re- 
ceived with the greatest good humor, as it promised 
to afford a new fijnd of entertainment to persons who 
had now no other resource for mirth, but what could 
be derived from ridicule or debauchery. 

I therefore read them a portion of the service with 
a loud unaffected voice, and found my audience per- 
fectly merry upon the occasion. Lewd whispers, 
groans of contrition burlesqued, winking and cough- 
ing, alternately excited laughter. However, I con- 
tinued with my natural solemnity to read on, sensible 
that what I did might mend some, but could itself re- 
ceive no contamination from any. 

After reading I entered upon my exhortation, 
\^hich was rather calculated at first to amuse than to 
reprove. I previously observed, that no other mo- 
tive but their welfare could induce me to this ; that 
I was their fellow-prisoner, and now got nothing by 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 195 

preaching. I was sorry, I said, to hear them so very 
profane ; because they got nothing by it, but might 
lose a great deal : '' for be assured, my friends," cried 
I, " for you are my friends, however the world may 
disclaim your friendship, though you swore a thou- 
sand oaths in a day, it would not put one penny in 
your purse. Then what signifies calling every mo- 
ment upon the devil, and courting his friendship, 
since you find how scurvily he uses you ? He has 
given you nothing here, you find, but a mouthful of 
oaths and an empty belly ; and by the best accounts 
I have of him, he will give you nothing that 's good 
hereafter. 

"If used ill in our dealings with one. man, we 
naturally go elsewhere. Were -it not worth your 
while, then, just to try how you may like the usage 
of another master, who gives you fair promises at 
least to come to him ? Surely, my friends, of all stu- 
pidity in the world, his must be the greatest, who, 
after robbing a house, runs to the thief-takers for pro- 
tection. And yet how are you more wise ? You are 
all seeking comfort from one that has already be- 
trayed you, applying to a more malicious being than 
any thief-taker of them all ; for they only decoy, and 
then hang you ; but he decoys and hangs, and, what 
is worst of all, will not let you loose after the hang- 
man is done." 

When I had concluded, I received the compliments 
of my audience, some of whom came and shook me 
by the hand, swearing that I was a very honest fel- 



196 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

low, and that they desired my further acquaintance. 
I therefore promised to repeat my lecture next day, 
and actually conceived some hopes of making a refor- 
mation here ; for it had ever been my opinion, that 
no man was past the hour of amendment, every heart 
lying open to the shafts of reproof, if the archer could 
but take a proper aim. When I had thus satisfied my 
mind, I went back to my apartment, where my wife 
prejDared a frugal meal, while Mr. Jenkinson begged 
leave to add his dinner to ours, and partake of the 
pleasure, as he was kind enough to express it, of my 
conversation. He had not yet seen my family ; for 
as they came to my apartment by a door in the nar- 
row passage already described, by this means they 
avoided the common prison. Jenkinson, at the first 
interview, therefore, seemed not a little struck with 
the beauty of my youngest daughter, which her pen- 
sive air contributed to heighten : and my little ones 
did not pass unnoticed. 

" Alas, doctor," cried he, " these children are too 
handsome and too good for such a place as this ! " 

" Why, Mr. Jenkinson," replied I, " thank Heaven, 
my children are pretty tolerable in morals ; and if 
they be good, it matters little for the rest." 

" I fancy, sir," returned my fellow prisoner, " that 
it must give you great comfort to have all this little 
family about you." 

" A comfort, Mr. Jenkinson ! " replied I ; " yes, it 
is indeed a comfort, and I would not be without them 
for all the world ; for they can make a dungeon seem 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 197 

a palace. There is but one way in this life of wound- 
ing my happiness, and that is by injuring them." 

" I am afraid, then, sir," cried he, " that I am in 
some measure culpable ; for I think I see here (look- 
ing at my son Moses), one that I have injured, and 
by whom I wish to be forgiven." 

My son immediately recollected his voice and feat- 
ures, though he had before seen him in disguise, and 
taking him by the hand, with a smile forgave him. 
" Yet," continued he, " I can't help wondering at what 
you could see in my face, to think me a proper mark 
for deception." 

" My dear sir," returned the other, " it was not 
your face, but your white stockings, and the black 
riband in your hair, that allured me. But no dispar- 
agement to your parts, I have deceived wiser men 
than you in my time ; and yet, with all my tricks, the 
blockheads have been too many for me at last." 

" I suppose," cried my son, " that the narrative of 
such a life as yours must be extremely instructive 
and amusing." 

"Not much of either," returned Mr. Jenkinson. 
" Those relations which describe the tricks and vices 
only of mankind, by increasing our suspicion in life, 
retard our success. The traveler that distrusts every 
person he meets, and turns back upon the appearance 
o^ every man that looks like a robber, seldom arrives 
in time at his journey's end. 

" Indeed I think, from my own experience, that the 
knowing one is the silliest fellow under the sun. I 



198 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

was thought cunning from my very childhood : when 
but seven years old the ladies would sa}'' that I was a 
perfect little man ; at fourteen I knew the world, 
cocked my hat, and loved the ladies ; at twenty, 
though I was perfectly honest, yet every one thought 
me so cunning, that not one would trust me. Thus 
at last I was obliged to turn sharper in my own de- 
fence, and have lived ever since, my head throbbing 
with schemes to deceive, and my heart palpitating 
with fears of detection. I used often to laugh at your 
honest simple neighbor Flamborough, and one way 
or another generally cheated him once a year. Yet 
still the honest man went forward without suspicion, 
and grew rich, while I still continued tricksy and 
cunning, and was poor without the consolation of be- 
ing honest. However," continued he, "let me know 
your case, and what has brought you here ; perhaps, 
though I have not skill to avoid a jail myself, I may 
extricate my friends." 

In compliance with his curiosity, I informed him 
of the whole train of accidents and follies that had 
jjlunged me into my present troubles, and my utter 
inability to get free. 

After hearing my story, and pausing some minutes, 
he slapt his forehead, as if he had hit upon something 
material, and took his leave, saying he would try 
what could be done. 




CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. 

The next morning, T communicated to my wife 
and children the scheme I had planned of reforming 
the prisoners, which they received with universal 
disapprobation, alleging the impossibility and impro- 
priety of it ; adding that my endeavors would no way 
contribute to their amendment, but might probably 
disgrace my calling. 

• " Excuse me," returned I ; "these people, however 
fallen, are still men ; and that is a very good title to 
my affections. Good counsel rejected, returns to en- 
rich the giver's bosom ; and though the instruction I 
communicate may not mend them, yet it will as- 
suredly mend myself. If these wretches, my children, 
were princes, there would be thousands ready to offer 
their ministry ; but, in my opinion, the heart that is 
buried in a dungeon is as precious as that seated u^Don 
the throne. Yes, my treasures, if I can mend them, 
I will : perhaps they will not all despise me. Per- 
haps I may catch up even one from the gulf, and that 
will be great gain : for is there upon earth a gem so 
precious as the human soul ? " 

Thus saying, I left them, and descended to the com- 



200 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

mon prison, where I found the prisoners very merry, 
expecting my arrival ; and each prepared with some 
jail trick to play upon the doctor. Thus, as I was 
going to begin, one turned my wig awry, as if by 
accident, and then asked my pardon. A second who 
stood at some distance, had a knack of spitting 
through his teeth, which fell in showers upon my 
book. A third would cry amen with such an affected 
tone, as gave the rest great delight. A fourth had 
slily picked my pocket of my spectacles. But there 
was one whose trick gave more universal pleasure 
than all the rest ; for observing the manner in which 
I had disposed of my books on the table before me, 
he very dexterously displaced one of them, and put 
an obscene jest book of his own in the place. How- 
ever, I took no notice of all that this mischievous 
group of little beings could do, but went on, perfectly 
sensible that what was ridiculous in my attempt 
would excite mirth only the first or second time, 
while what was serious would be permanent. My 
design succeeded, and in less than six days some were 
penitent, and all attentive. 

It was now that I applauded my perseverance and 
address, at thus giving sensibility to wretches divested 
of every moral feeling ; and now began to think of 
doing them temporal services also, by rendering their 
situation somewhat more comfortable. Their time 
had hitherto been divided between famine and excess, 
tumultuous riot and bitter repining. Their only em- 
ployment was quarrelling among each other, playing 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 201 

at cribbage, and cutting tobacco-stoppers. From this 
last mode of idle industry, I took the hint of setting 
such as chose to work at cutting pegs for tobacconists 
and shoemakers, the proper wood being bought by a 
general subscription, and when manufactured sold by 
my appointment; so that each earned something 
every day — a trifle indeed, but sufficient to maintain 
him. 

I did not stop here, but instituted fines for the 
punishment of immorality, and rewards for peculiar 
industry. Thus in less than a fortnight I had formed 
them into something social and humane, and had the 
pleasure of regarding myself as a legislator, who had 
brouo-htmen from their native ferocity into friendship 
and obedience. 

And it were highly to be wished, that legislative 
power would thus direct the law rather to reforma- 
tion than severity : that it would seem convinced, that 
the work of eradicating crimes is not by making 
punishments familiar, but formidable. Then, instead 
of our present prisons, which find or make men 
guility, which inclose wretches for the commission of 
one crime, and return them, if returned alive, fitted 
for the perpetration of thousands ; we should see, as 
in other parts of Europe, places of penitence and 
solitude, where the accused might be attended by such 
as could give them repentance, if guilty, or new mo- 
tives to virtue, if innocent. And this, but not the 
increasing punishment, is the way to mend a state. 
Nor can I avoid even questioning the validity of that 



202 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

right which social combinations have assumed, of 
capitally punishing offences of a slight nature. In 
cases of murder, their right is obvious, as it is the 
duty of us all, from the law of self-defence, to cut off 
that man who has shown a disregard for the life of 
another. Against such all nature rises in arms : but 
it is not so against him who steals my property. 
Natural law gives me no right to take away his life, 
as, by that, the horse he steals is as much his prop- 
erty as mine. If then I have any right, it must be 
from a compact made between us, that he who de- 
prives the other of his horse shall die. But this is a 
false compact, because no man has a right to barter 
his life any more than to take it away, as it is not his 
own. And beside, the compact is inadequate, and 
would be set aside even in a court of modern equity, 
as there is a great penalty for a very trifling con- 
venience, since it is far better that two men should 
live, than that one man should ride. But a compact 
that is false between two men, is equally so between 
a hundred, or a hundred thousand ; for as ten millions 
of circles can never make a square, so the united 
voice of myriads cannot lend the smallest foundation 
to falsehood. It is thus that reason speaks, and un- 
tutored nature says the same thing. Savages that 
are directed by natural law alone, are very tender of 
the lives of each other ; they seldom shed blood but 
to retaliate former cruelty. 

Our Saxon ancestors, fierce as they were in war, 
had but few executions in times of peace : and in all 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 203 

commencing governments that have the print of nat- 
ure still strong upon them, scarcely any crime is held 
capijtal. 

It is among the citizens of a refined community 
that penal laws, which are in the hands of the rich, 
are laid upon the poor. Government, while it grows 
older, seems to acquire the moroseness of age ; and 
as if our property were become dearer in proportion 
as it increased ; as if the more enormous our wealth, 
the more extensive our fears, all our possessions are 
paled up with new edicts every day, and hung round 
with gibbets to scare every invader. 

I cannot tell whether it is from the number of our 
penal laws or the licentiousness of our people, that 
this country should show more convicts in a year than 
half the dominions of Europe united. Perhaps it is 
owing to both ; for they mutually produce each other. 
"When, by indiscriminate penal laws, a nation beholds 
the same punishment affixed to dissimilar degrees of 
guilt, from perceiving no distinction in the penalty, 
the people are led to lose all sense of distinction in 
the crime, and this distinction is the bulwark of all 
morality. Thus the multitude of the laws produce 
new vices, and new vices call for fresh restraints. 

It were to be wished, then, that power, instead of 
contriving new laws to punish vice ; instead of draw- 
ing hard the cords of society till a convulsion come to 
burst them ; instead of cutting away wretches as use- 
less before we have tried their utility ; instead of con- 
verting correction into vengeance, — it were to be 



204 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

wished that we tried the restrictive arts of govern- 
meut, and make law the protector, but not the tyrant 
of the peoiDle. We should then find that creatures, 
whose souls are held as dross, only wanted the hand 
of a refiner. We should then find that creatures, now 
stuck up for long tortures, lest luxury should feel a 
momentary pang, might, if properly treated, serve to 
sinew the state in times of danger ; that as their faces 
are like ours, their hearts are so too ; that few minds 
are so base as that perseverance cannot amend ; that 
a man may see his last crime without dying for it ; 
and that very little blood will serve to cement our 
security.-^ 

1 This just and philosophical view of our penal code has at 
length, aftei* the lapse of many j-ears, made some way in public 
opinion, and mitigated the rigor of several former enactments. 






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CHAPTER XXVIII. 

HAPPINESS AND MISERY RATHER THE RESULT OF 
PRUDENCE THAN OP VIRTUE, IN THIS LIFE ; 
TEMPORAL EVILS OR FELICITIES BEING RE- 
GARDED BY HEAVEN AS THINGS MERELY IN 
THEMSELVES TRIFLING, AND UNWORTHY ITS 
CARE IN THE DISTRIBUTION. 

I HAD now been confined more than a fortnight, but 
had not since my arrival been visited by my dear 
Olivia, and I greatly longed to see her. Having 
communicated my wishes to my wife, the next morn- 
ing the poor girl entered my apartment leaning on 
her sister's arm. The change which I saw on her 
countenance struck me. The numberless graces that 
once resided there were now fled, and the hand of 
death seemed to have moulded every feature to 
alarm me. Her temples were sunk, her forehead was 
tense, and a fatal paleness sat upon her cheek. 

" I am glad to see thee, my dear," cried I, " but 
why this dejection, Livy ? I hope, my love, you have 
too great a regard for me to permit disappointment 
thus to undermine a life which I prize as my own. 
Be cheerful, child, and we may yet see happier days." 
" You have ever, sir," replied she, " been kind to 



206 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

me, and it adds to my pain that I shall never have 
an oi3portunity of sharing that happiness you prom- 
ise. Happiness, I fear, is no longer reserved for me 
here ; and I long to be rid of a place where I have 
only found distress. Indeed, sir, I wish you would 
make a proper submission to Mr. Thornhill : it may 
in some measure induce him to pity you, and it will 
give me relief in dying." 

" Never, child," replied I ; " never will I be brought 
to acknowledge my daughter a prostitute ; for though 
the world may look upon your offence with scorn, let 
it be mine to regard it as a mark of credulity, not of 
guilt. My dear, I am no way miserable in this place, 
however dismal it may seem ; and be assured, that 
while you continue to bless me by living, he shall 
never have my consent to make you more wretched 
by marrying another." 

After the departure of my daughter, my fellow- 
prisoner, who was by at this interview, sensibly 
enough expostulated on my obstinacy in refusing a 
submission which promised to give me freedom. He 
observed, that the rest of my family was not to be 
sacrificed to the peace of one child alone, and she 
the only one who had offended me. " Besides," 
added he, " I don't know if it be just thus to obstruct 
the union of man and wife, which you do at present, 
by refusing to consent to a match you cannot hinder, 
but may render unhappy." 

" Sir," replied I, " you are unacquainted with the 
man that oppresses us. I am very sensible that no sub- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 207 

mission I can make could procure me liberty even 
for an hour. I am told that even in this very room a 
debtor of his, no later than last year, died for want. 
But though my submission and approbation could 
transfer me from hence to the most beautiful apartment 
he is possessed of, yet I would grant neither, as some- 
thing whispers me that it would be giving a sanction 
to adultery. While my daughter lives, no other mar- 
riage of his shall ever be legal in my eye. Were she 
removed, indeed, I should be the basest of men, from 
any resentment of my own, to attempt putting asun- 
der those who wish for a union. No ; villain as he is, 
I should then wish him married, to prevent the con- 
sequences of his future debaucheries. But now, 
should I not be the most cruel of all fathers to sign 
an instrument which must send my child to the grave, 
merely to avoid a prison myself ; and thus, to escape 
one pang, break my child's heart with a thousand ? " 
He acquiesced in the justice of this answer, but 
could not avoid observing, that he feared my daugh- 
ter's life was already too much wasted to keep me 
long a prisoner. " However," continued he, " though 
you refuse to submit to the nephew, I hope you have 
no objection to laying your case before the uncle, 
who has the first character in the kingdom for every- 
thing that is just and good. I would advise you to 
send him a letter by the post, intimating all his 
nephew's *ill usage, and my life for it, that in three 
days you shall have an answer." I thanked him for 
the hint, and instantly set about complying ; but I 



208 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

wanted paper, and unluckily all our money had been 
laid out that morning in provisions ; however, he sup- 
plied me. 

For the three ensuing days I was in a state of 
anxiety to know what reception my letter might meet 
with ; but in the mean time was frequently solicited 
by my wife to submit to any conditions rather than 
remain here, and every hour received repeated ac- 
counts of the decline of my daughter's health. The 
third day and the fourth arrived, but I received no 
answer to my letter ; the complaints of a stranger 
against a favorite nephew were no way likely to suc- 
ceed ; so that these hopes soon vanished like all my 
former. My mind, however, still supported itself, 
though confinement and bad air began to make a visi- 
ble alteration in my health, and my arm that had suf- 
fered in the fire grew worse. My children, however, 
sat by me, and while I was stretched on my straw, 
read to me by turns, or listened and wept at my in- 
structions. But my daughter's health declined faster 
than mine ; every message from her contributed to 
-increase my apprehension and pain. The fifth jnorn- 
ing after I had written the letter which was sent to 
Sir William Thornhill, I was alarmed with an ac- 
count that she was speechless. Now it was that con- 
finement was truly painful to me ; my soul was burst- 
ing from its prison to be near the pillow of my child, 
to comfort, to strengthen her, to receive her last 
wishes, and teach her soul the way to Heaven ! An- 
other account came : She was expiring, and yet I 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 209 

was debarred the small comfort of weeping by her. 
My fellow-prisoner, some time after, came with the 
last account. He bade me be patient ; She was dead ! 
— The next morning he returned, and found me 
with my two little ones, now my only companions, 
who were using all their innocent efforts to comfort 
me. They entreated, to read to me, and bade me not 
cry, for I was now too old to weep. " And is not my 
sister an angel now, papa ? " cried the eldest ; " and 
why then are you sorry for her ? I wish I were an 
angel out of this frightful place, if my papa were with 
me." " Yes," added my youngest darling, " Heaven, 
where my sister is, is a finer place than this, and 
there is none but good people there, and the people 
here are very bad." 

Mr. Jenkinson interrupted their harmless prattle 
by observing, that, now my daughter was no more, I 
should seriously think of the rest of my family, and 
attempt to save my own life which was every day 
declining for want of necessaries and wholesome air. 
He added, that it was now incumbent on me to sacri- 
fice any pride or resentment of my own to the welfare 
of those who depended on me for support ; and that 
I was now, both by reason and justice, obliged to try 
to reconcile my landlord. 

" Heaven be praised," replied I, " there is no pride 
left me now : I should detest my own heart if I saw 
either pride or resentment lurking there. On the 
contrary, as my oppressor has been once my parish- 
ioner, I hope one day to present him up an unpol- 
14 



210 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

luted soul at the eternal tribunal. No, sir, I have no 
resentment now ; and though he has taken from me 
what I held dearer than all his treasures, though he 
has wrung my heart, — for I am sick almost to faint- 
ing, very sick, my fellow-prisoner, — yet that shall 
never inspire me with vengeance. I am now willing 
to approve his marriage ; and if this submission can 
do him any pleasure, let him know that if I have done 
him any injury I am sorry for it." 

Mr. Jenkinson took pen and ink, and wrote down 
my submission nearly as I had expressed it, to which 
I signed my name. My son was employed to carry 
the letter to Mr. Thornhill, who was then at his seat 
in the country. He went, and in about six hours re- 
turned with a verbal answer. He had some difficulty, 
he said, to get a sight of his landlord, as the servants 
were insolent and suspicious : but he accidentally saw 
him as he was going out upon business, preparing 
for his marriage, which was to be in three days. He 
continued to inform ns, that he stept up in the hum- 
blest manner, and delivered the letter, which when 
Mr. Thornhill had read, he said that all submission 
was now too late and unnecessary ; that he had heard 
of our application to his uncle, which met with the 
contempt it deserved ; and as for the rest, that all 
future application should be directed to his attorney, 
not to him. He observed, however, that as he had 
a very good opinion of the discretion of the two 
young ladies, they might have been the most agree- 
able intercessors. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 211 

" Well, sir," said I to my fellow-prisoner, " you 
now discover the temper of the man that oppresses 
me. He can at once be facetious and cruel ; but let 
him use me as he will, I shall soon be free, in spite 
of all his bolts to restrain me. I am now drawing 
towards an abode that looks brighter as I approach 
it ; this expectation cheers my afflictions, and though 
I leave a helpless family of orphans behind me, yet 
they will not be utterly forsaken ; some friend will be 
found to assist them for the sake of their poor father, 
and some may charitably relieve them for the sake of 
their heavenly Father." 

Just as I had spoke, my wife, whom I had not seen 
that day before, appeared with looks of terror, and 
making efforts, but unable to speak. " Why, my 
love," cried I, " why will you increase my afflictions 
by your own ? What though no submissions can 
turn our severe master, though he has doomed me to 
die in this place of wretchedness, and though we have 
lost a darling child, yet still you will find comfort in 
your other children when I shall be no more." " We 
have indeed lost," returned she, " a darling child. 
My Sophia, my dearest is gone ; snatched from us, 
carried off by ruffians ! " " How, madam," cried my 
fellow-prisoner, " Miss Sophia carried off by villains ! 
sure it cannot be." 

She could only answer with a fixed look and a 
flood of tears. But one of the prisoner's wives who 
was present, and came in with her, gave us a more 
distinct account ; she informed us, that as my wife, 



212 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

my daughter, and herself were taking a walk together 
ou the great road, a little way out of the village, a 
230st-chaise and pair drove up to them, and instantly 
stopped. Upon which a well-dressed man, but not 
Mr. Thornhill, stepping out, clasped my daughter 
round the waist, and forcing, her in, bid the postillion 
drive on, so that they were out of sight in a moment. 

" Now," cried I, " the sum of my miseries is made 
up, nor is it in the power of anything on earth to give 
me another pang. What ! not one left ! not to leave 
me one ! The monster ! The child that was next to 
my heart ! she has the beauty of an angel, and almost 
the wisdom of an angel. But support that woman, 
nor let her fall. Not to leave me one ! " 

" Alas ! my husband," said my wife, " you seem to 
want comfort even more than I. Our distresses are 
great ; but I could bear this and more, if I saw you 
but easy. They may take away my children, and all 
the world, if they leave me but you." 

My son, who was present, endeavored to moderate 
her grief ; he bade us take comfort, for he hoped that 
we might still have reason to be thankful. " My 
child," cried T, " look round the world, and see if 
there be any happiness left me now. Is not every 
ray of comfort shut out, while all our bright prospects 
only lie beyond the grave ! " " My dear father," re- 
turned he, " I hope there is still something that will 
give you. an interval of satisfaction; for I have a 
letter from my brother George." " What of him, 
child ? " interrupted I, " does he know our misery ? 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 213 

I hope my boy is exempt from any part of what his 
wretched family suffers ? " " Yes, sir," returned he, 
" he is perfectly gay, cheerful, and happy. His letter 
brings nothing but good news : he is the favorite of 
his colonel, who promises to procure him the very 
next lieutenancy that becomes vacant." 

" And are you sure of all this ? " cried my wife : 
" Are you sure that nothing ill has befallen my 
boy ? " " Nothing, indeed, madam," returned my 
son ; " you shall see the letter, which will give you 
the highest pleasure ; and if anything can procure 
you comfort, I am sure that will." " But are you 
sure," still repeated she, " that the letter is from him- 
self, and that he is really so happy ? " " Yes, 
madam," replied he, " it is certainly his, and he will 
one day be the credit and support of our family." 
" Then I thank Providence," cried she, " that my 
last letter to him has miscarried. Yes, my dear," 
continued she, turning to me, " I will now confess, 
that though the hand of Heaven is sore upon us in 
other instances, it has been favorable here. By the 
last letter I wrote my son, which was in the bitter- 
ness of anger, I desired him upon his mother's bless- 
ing, and if he had the heart of a man, to see justice 
done his father and sister, and avenge our cause. 
But thanks be to Him that directs all things, it has 
miscarried, and I am at rest." " Woman," cried I, 
" thou hast done very ill, and at another time my 
reproaches might have been more severe. Oh ! what 
a tremendous gulf hast thou escaped, that would have 



214 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

buried both thee and him in endless ruin ! Provi- 
dence indeed has here been kinder to us than we to 
ourselves. It has reserved that son to be the father 
and protector of my children when I shall be away. 
How unjustly did I complain of being stripped of 
every comfort, when still I hear that he is happy, 
and insensible of our afflictions ; still kept in reserve 
to support his widowed mother, and to protect his 
brothers and sisters. But what sisters has he left ? 
he has no sisters now ; they are all gone, robbed from 
me, and I am undone." " Father," interrupted my 
son, " I beg you will give me leave to read this letter, 
I know it will please you." Upon which, with my 
permission, he read as follows : — 

Honored Sir, — I have called off my imagina- 
tion a few moments from the pleasures that surround 
me, to fix it upon objects that are still more pleasing, 
the dear little fire-side at home. My fancy draws 
that harmless group as listening to every line of this 
with great composure. I view those faces with de- 
light which never felt the deforming hand of ambition 
or distress ! But whatever your happiness may be 
at home, T am sure it will be some addition to it to 
hear, that I am perfectly pleased with my situation, 
and every way happy here. 

Our regiment is countermanded, and is not to leave 
the kingdom. The colonel, who professes himself 
my friend, takes me with him to all companies where 
he is acquainted, and after my first visit I generally 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 215 

find myself received witli increased respect upon re- 
peating it. I danced last night with Lady G , 

and could I forget you know whom, I might be per- 
haps successful. But it is my fate still to remember 
others, while I am myself forgotten by most of my 
absent friends ; and in this number, I fear, sir, that I 
must consider you ; for I have long expected the 
pleasure of a letter from home, to no purpose. 
Olivia and Sophia too promised to write, but seem to 
have forgotten me. Tell them they are two arrant 
little baggages, and that I am at this moment in a 
most violent passion with them ; yet still, I know not 
how, though I want to bluster a little, my heart is 
respondent only to softer emotions. Then tell them, 
sir, that after all I love them affectionately, and be 
assured of my ever remaining, 

Your dutiful Son. 

" In all our miseries," cried I, " what thanks have 
we not to return, that one at least of our family is 
exempted from what we suffer ! Heaven be his 
guard, and keep my boy thus happy, to be the sup- 
porter of his widowed mother, and the father of these 
two babes, which is all the patrimony I can now be- 
queath him ! May he keep their innocence from the 
temptations of want, and be their conductor in the 
paths of honor ! " I had scarcely said these words, 
when a noise like that of a tumult seemed to proceed 
from the prison below; it died away soon after, and 
a clanking of fetters was heard along the passage that 



216 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

led to my apartment. The keeper of the prison en- 
tered, holding a man all bloody, wounded, and fet- 
tered with the heaviest irons. I looked with compas- 
sion on the wretch as he apjoroached me, but with 
horror when I found it was my own son. "My 
George ! my George ! and do I behold thee thus ? 
Wounded — fettered ! Is this thy happiness ? is this 
the manner you return to me ? O that this sight 
could break my heart at once, and let me die ! " 

" Where, sir, is your fortitude ? " returned my son 
with an intrepid voice. " I must suffer ; my life is 
forfeited and let them take it." ^ 

I tried to restrain my passions for a few minutes 
in silence, but I thought I should have died w^ith the 
effort. " my boy, my heart weeps to behold thee 
thus, and I cannot, cannot help it. In the moment 
when I thought thee blest, and prayed for thy safety, 
to behold thee thus again ! Chained, wounded ! 
And yet the death of the youthful is happy. But I 
am old, a very old man, and have lived to see this 
day ! To see my children all untimely falling about 
me, while I continue a wretched survivor in the midst 
of ruin ! May all the curses that ever sunk a soul 
fall heavy upon the murderer of my children ! May 
he live, like me, to see " — 

" Hold, sir," replied my son, " or I shall blush for 
thee. How, sir, forgetful of your age, your holy call- 
ing, thus to arrogate the justice of Heaven, and fling 

1 "It is my last happiness, that I have committed no murder, 
though I have lost all hopes of pardon." — First Edit. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 217 

those curses upward that must soon descend to crush 
thy own gray head with destruction ! No, sir, let it 
be your care now to fit me for that vile death I must 
shortly suffer ; to arm me with hope and resolution ; 
to give me courage to drink of that bitterness which 
must shortly be my portion." 

" My child, you must not die : I am sure no offence 
of thine can deserve so vile a punishment. My 
George could never be guilty of any crime to make 
his ancestors ashamed of him." 

" Mine, sir," returned my son, " is, I fear, an un- 
pardonable one.-^ When I received my mother's 
letter from home, I immediately came down, deter- 
mined to punish the betrayer of our honor, and sent 
him an order to meet me, which he answered, not in 
person, but by dispatching four of his domestics to 
seize me. I wounded one who first assaulted me, 
and I fear desperately ; but the rest made me their 
prisoner. The coward is determined to put the law 
in execution against me ; the proofs are undeniable ; 
I have sent a challenge, and as I am the first trans- 
gressor upon the statute, I see no hopes of pardon. 
But 3^ou have often charmed me with your lessons 
of fortitude ; let me now, sir, find them in your ex- 
ample." 

" And, my son, you shall find them. I am now 
raised above this world, and all the pleasures it can 
produce. From this moment I break from my heart 

1 '* I have sent a challenge, and that is death bj a late Act of 
Parliament." — First Edit. 



218 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

all the ties that held it down to earth, and will pre- 
pare to fit us both for eternity. Yes, my son, I will 
point out the way, and ray soul shall guide yours in 
the ascent, for we will take our flight together. I 
now see and am convinced you can expect no pardon 
here ; and I can only exhort you to seek it at that 
greatest tribunal where we both shall shortly answer. 
But let us not be niggardly in our exhortation, but 
let all our fellow-prisoners have a share : Good 
jailer, let them be permitted to stand here while I 
attempt to improve them." Thus saying, I made an 
effort to rise from my straw, but wanted strength, and 
was able only to recline against the wall. The pris- 
oners assembled themselves according to my direc- 
tions, for they loved to hear my counsel ; my son and 
his mother supported me on either side ; I looked 
and saw that none were wanting, and then addressed 
them with the following exhortation. 





CHAPTER XXIX. 



THE EQUAL DEALINGS OF PROVIDENCE DEMON- 
STRATED WITH REGARD TO THE HAPPY AND THE 
MISERABLE HERE BELOW. THAT FROM THE NA- 
TURE OF PLEASURE AND PAIN, THE WRETCHED 
MUST BE REPAID THE BALANCE OF THEIR SUFFER- 
INGS IN THE LIFE HEREAFTER. 

My friends, my children, and fellow-sufferers, wlien 
I reflect on the distribution of good and evil here be- 
low, I find that much has been given man to enjoy, 
yet still more to suffer. Though we should examine 
the whole world, we shall not find one man so haj^py 
as to have nothing left to wish for ; but we daily see 
thousands, who, by suicide, show us they have noth- 
ing left to hope. In this life, then, it appears that 
we cannot be entirely blest, but yet we may be com- 
pletely miserable. 

Why man should thus feel pain ; why our wretch- 
edness should be requisite in the formation of uni- 
versal felicity ; why, when all other systems are made 
perfect by the perfection of their subordinate parts, 
the great system should require for its perfection 
parts that are not only subordinate to others, but im- 
perfect in themselves, — these are questions that 



220 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

never can be explained, and might be useless if known. 
On this subject, Providence has thought fit to elude 
our curiosity, satisfied with granting us motives to 
consolation. 

In this situation man has called in the friendly as- 
sistance of philosophy, and Heaven, seeing the inca- 
pacity of that to console him, has given him the aid 
of religion. The consolations of philosophy are very 
amusing, but often fallacious. It tells us that life is 
filled with comforts, if we will but enjoy them ; and 
on the other hand, that though we unavoidably have 
miseries here, life is short, and they will soon be over. 
Thus do these consolations destroy each other ; for, if 
life is a place of comfort, its shortness must be mis- 
ery, and if it be long, our griefs are protracted. Thus 
philosophy is weak ; but religion comforts in a higher 
strain. Man is here, it tells us, fitting up his mind, 
and preparing it for another abode. When the good 
man leaves the body and is all a glorious mind, he 
w^ill find he has been making himself a heaven of hap- 
piness here ; while the wretch that has been maimed 
and contaminated by his vices, shrinks from his body 
with terror, and finds that he has anticipated the ven- 
geance of heaven. To religion then we must hold in 
every circumstance of life for our truest comfort ; for 
if already we are happy, it is a pleasure to think that 
we can make that happiness unending ; and if we are 
miserable, it is very consoling to think that there is a 
place of rest. Thus, to the fortunate, religion holds 
out a continuance of bliss ; to the wretched, a change 
from pain. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 221 

But though religion is very kind to all men, it has 
promised peculiar rewards to the unhappy : the sick, 
the naked, the houseless, the heavy-laden, and the 
prisoner, have ever most frequent promises in our 
sacred law. The author of our religion everywhere 
professes himself the wretch's friend, and, unlike the 
false ones of this world, bestows all his caresses upon 
the forlorn. The unthinking have censured this as 
partiality, as a preference without merit to deserve it. 
But they never reflect, that it is not in the power 
even of Heaven itself to make the oiFer of unceasing 
felicity as great a gift to the happy as to the misera- 
ble. To the first, eternity is but a single blessing, 
since at most it but increases what they already pos- 
sess. To the latter, it is a double advantage • for it 
diminishes their pain here, and rewards them with 
heavenly bliss hereafter. 

But Providence is in another respect kinder to the 
poor than the rich ; for as it thus makes the life after 
death more desirable, so it smooths the passage there. 
The wretched have had a long familiarity with every 
face of terror. The man of sorrows lays himself 
quietly down, without possessions to regret, and but 
few ties to stop his departure : he feels only nature's 
pang in the final separation, and this is no way 
greater than he has often fainted under before : for 
after a certain degree of pain, every new breach that 
death opens in the constitution, nature kindly covers 
with insensibility. 

Thus Providence has given the wretched two advan- 



222 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

tages over the happy in this life — greater felicity in 
dying, and in heaven all that superiority of pleasure 
which arises from contrasted enjoyment. And this 
superiority, my friends, is no small advantage, and 
seems to be one of the pleasures of the poor man in 
the parable ; for though he was already in heaven, 
and felt all the raptures it could give, yet it was men- 
tioned as an addition to his happiness, that he had 
once been wretched, and now was comforted ; that he 
had known what it was to be miserable, and now felt 
what it was to be happy. 

Thus, my friends, you see religion does what phi- 
losophy could never do : it shows the equal dealings 
of Heaven to the happy and the unhappy, and levels 
all human enjoyments to nearly the same standard. 
It gives to both rich and poor the same happiness 
hereafter, and equal hopes to aspire after it ; but if 
the rich have the advantage of enjoyiug pleasure here, 
the poor have the endless satisfaction of knowing 
what it was once to be miserable, when crowned with 
endless felicity hereafter ; and even though this should 
be called a small advantage, yet being an eternal one, 
it must make up by duration what the temporal hap- 
piness of the great may have exceeded by intense- 
ness. 

These are, therefore, the consolations which the 
wretched have peculiar to themselves, and in which 
they are above the rest of mankind ; in other respects, 
they are below them. They who would know the 
miseries of the poor, must see life and endure it. To 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 223 

declaim on the temporal advantages they enjoy, is 
only repeating what none either believe or practise. 
The men who have the necessaries of living are not 
poor, and they who want them must be miserable. 
Yes, my friends, we must be miserable. No vain 
efforts of a refined imagination can soothe the wants 
of nature, can give elastic sweetness to the dank 
vapor of a dungeon, or ease to the throbbings of a 
broken heart. Let the philosopher from his couch 
of softness tell us that we can resist all these : Alas ! 
the effort by which we resist them is still the greatest 
pain. Death is slight, and any man may sustain it : 
but torments are dreadful, and these no man can en- 
dure. 

To us, then, my friends, the promises of happiness 
in heaven should be peculiarly dear ; for if our re- 
ward be in this life alone, we are then indeed of all 
men the most miserable. When I look round these 
gloomy walls, made to terrify as well as to - confine 
us ; this light, that only serves to show the horrors 
of the place ; those shackles, that tyranny has im- 
posed, or crime made necessary ; when I survey these 
emaciated looks, and hear those groans, ! my 
friends, what a glorious exchange would Heaven be 
for these. To fly through regions unconfined as air, 
to bask in the sunshine of eternal bliss, to carol over 
endless hymns of praise, to have no master to threaten 
or insult us, but the form of Goodness himself for- 
ever in our eyes ! when I think of these things death 
becomes the messenger of very glad tidings ; when I 



224 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

thiuk of these things, his sharpest arrow becomes the 
staff of my support ; when I think of these things, 
what is there in life worth having ? when I think of 
these things, what is there that should not be spurned 
away ? Kings in their palaces should groan for such 
advantages ; but we, humbled as we are, should yearn 
for them. 

And shall these things be ours ? Ours they will 
certainly be if we but try for them ; and what is a 
comfort, we are shut out from many temptations that 
would retard our pursuit. Only let us try for them, 
and they will certainly be ours ; and what is still a 
comfort, shortly too ; for if we look back on a past 
life, it appears but a very short span, and whatever 
we may think of the rest of life, it will yet be found 
of less duration ; as we grow older, the days seem to 
grow shorter, and our intimacy with time ever lessens 
the perception of his stay. Then let us take comfort 
now, for we shall soon be at our journey's end ; we 
shall soon lay down the heavy burden laid by Heaven 
upon us ; and though death, the only friend of the 
wretched, for a little while mocks the weary traveler 
with the view, and like his horizon still flies before 
him ; yet the time will certainly and shortly come, 
when we shall cease from our toil ; when the luxuri- 
ous great ones of the world shall no more tread us to 
the earth ; when we shall think with pleasure of our 
sufferings below ; when we shall be surrounded with 
our friends, or such as deserved our friendship ; when 
our bliss shall be unutterable, and still, to crown all, 
unending. 



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CHAPTER XXX. 

HAPPIER PROSPECTS BEGIN TO APPEAR. LET US 

BE INFLEXIBLE, AND FORTUNE WILL AT LAST 
CHANGE IN OUR FAVOR. 

When I bad thus finished, and my audience was 
retired, the jailer, who was one of the most humane 
of his profession, hoped I would not be displeased, as 
what he did was but his duty, observing, that he must 
be obliged to remove my son into a stronger cell, but 
that he should be permitted to revisit me every morn- 
ing. I thanked him for his clemency, and grasping 
my boy's hand, bade him farewell, and be mindful of 
the great duty that was before him. 

I again therefore laid me down, and one of my 
little ones sat by my bed-side reading, when Mr. Jen- 
kinson entering, informed me that there was news of 
my daughter ; for that she was seen by a person 
about two hours before in a strange gentleman's com- 
pany ; and that they had stopt at a neighboring vil- 
lage for refreshment, and seemed as if returning to 
town. He had scarcely delivered this news when the 
jailer came with looks of haste and pleasure to in- 
form me, that my daughter was found. Moses came 
running in a moment after, crying out that his sister 
15 



226 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

Sophy was below, and coming up with our old friend 
Mr. Burchell. 

Just as he delivered this news, my dearest girl 
entered, and with looks almost wild with pleasure, 
ran to kiss me in a transport of affection. Her 
mother's tears and silence also showed her pleasure. 
'• Here, papa," cried the charming girl, " here is the 
brave man to whom I owe my delivery ; to this gen- 
tleman's intrepidity I am indebted for my happiness 
and safety " — A kiss from Mr. Burchell, whose 
pleasure seemed even greater than her's, interrupted 
what she was going to add. 

" Ah, Mr. Burchell," cried I, " this is but a wretched 
habitation you now find us in ; and we are now very 
different from what you last saw us. You were ever 
our friend ; we have long discovered our errors with 
regard to you, and repented of our ingratitude. After 
the vile usage you then received at our hands, I am 
almost ashamed to behold your face : yet I hope 
you '11 forgive me, as I was deceived by a base ungen- 
erous wretch, who under the mask of friendship has 
undone me." 

" It is impossible," cried IMr. Burchell, " that I 
should forgive you, as you never deserved my resent- 
ment. I partly saw your delusion then, and as it was 
out of my power to restrain, I could only pity it." 

" It was ever my conjecture," cried I, " that your 
mind was noble, but now I find it so. But tell me, 
my dear child, how thou hast been relieved, or who 
the ruffians were who carried thee away." 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 227 

" Indeed, sir," replied she, " as to the villain who 
carried me off, I am yet ignorant. For, as my 
mamma and I were walking out, he came behind us, 
and almost before I could call for help, forced me 
into the post-chaise, and in an instant the horses 
drove away. I met several on the road to whom I 
cried out for assistance, but they disregarded my en- 
treaties. In the mean time the ruffian himself used 
every art to hinder me from crying out : he flattered 
and threatened by turns, and swore that if I continued 
but silent he intended me no harm. In the mean time 
I had broken the canvas that he had drawn up, and 
whom should I perceive at some distance but your 
old friend "Mr. Burchell, walking along with his usual 
swiftness, with the great stick, for which we used so 
much to ridicule him. As soon as we came within 
hearing, I called out to him by name, and entreated 
his help. I repeated my exclamations several times, 
upon which with a very loud voice he bid the pos- 
tillion st-op ; but the boy took no notice, but drove on 
with still greater speed. I now thought he could 
never overtake us, when, in less than a minute I saw 
Mr. Burchell come running up by the side of the 
horses, and with one blow knock the postillion to the 
ground. The horses, when he was fallen, soon stopt 
of themselves, and the ruffian stepping out, with oaths 
and menaces drew his sword, and ordered him at his 
peril to retire ; but Mr. Burchell running up, shivered 
his sword to pieces, and then pursued him for near a 
quarter of a mile ; but he made his escape. I was at 



228 . VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

this time come out myself, willing to assist my deliv- 
erer ; but he soon returned to me in triumph. The 
postilHon, who was recovered, was going to make his 
escape too ; but Mr. Burchell ordered him at his peril 
to mount again and drive back to town. Finding it 
impossible to resist, he reluctantly comj^lied, though 
the wound he had received seemed to me at least to 
be dangerous. He continued to complain of the pain 
as we drove along, so that he at last excited Mr. 
Burchell's compassion, who at my request exchanged 
him for another, at an inn where we called on our 
return." 

"Welcome, then," cried I, "my child! and thou, 
her gallant deliverer, a thousand welcomes ! Though 
our cheer is but wretched, yet our hearts are ready to 
receive you. And now, Mr. Burchell, as you have 
delivered my girl, if you think her a recompense, she 
is yours ; if you can stoop to an alliance with a family 
so poor as mine, take her, obtain her consent, as I 
know you have her heart, and you have mine. And 
let me tell you, sir, that I give you no small treasure ; 
she has been celebrated for beauty, it is true, but that 
is not my meaning, I give you ujd a treasure in her 
mind." 

" But I suppose, sir," cried Mr. Burchell, " that 
you are apprised of my circumstances, and of my in- 
cajDacity to support her as she deserves?" 

"If your present objections," replied I, "be meant 
as an evasion of my offer, I desist : but I know no 
man so worthy to deserve her as you ; and if I could 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 229 

give her thousands, and thousands sought her from 
me, yet my honest brave Burchell should be my 
dearest choice." 

To all this his silence alone seemed to give a mor- 
tifying refusal, and without the least reply to my 
offer, he demanded if he could not be furnished with 
refreshments from the next inn ; to which being an- 
swered in the affirmative, he ordered them to send in 
the best dinner that could be provided upon such 
short notice. He bespoke also a dozen of their best 
wine, and some cordials for me ; adding, with a smile, 
that he would stretch a little for once, and, though in 
a prison, asserted he was never better disposed to be 
merry. The waiter soon made his appearance, with 
preparations for dinner : a table was lent us by the 
jailer, who seemed remarkably assiduous ; the wine 
was disposed in order, and two very well-dressed 
dishes were brought in. 

My daughter had not yet heard of her poor broth- 
er 's melancholy situation, and we all seemed unwill- 
ing to damp her cheerfulness by the relation. But it 
was in vain that I attempted to appear cheerful, the 
circumstances of my unfortunate son broke through 
all efforts to dissemble ; so that I was at last obliged 
to damp our mirth by relating his misfortunes, and 
wishing that he might be permitted to share with us 
in this little interval of satisfaction. After my guests 
were recovered from the consternation my account 
had produced, I requested also that Mr. Jenkinson, a 
fellow-prisoner, might be admitted, and the jailer 



230 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

granted my request with au air of unusual submission. 
The clanking of my son 's irons was no sooner heard 
along the passage, than his sister ran impatiently to 
meet him ; while Mr. Burchell, in the mean time, 
asked me if my son 's name was George ; to which 
replying in the affirmative, he still continued silent. 
As soon as my boy entered the room, I could perceive 
he regarded Mr. Burchell with a look of astonish- 
ment and reverence. " Come on," cried I, " my son ; 
though we are fallen very low, yet Providence has 
been pleased to grant us some small relaxation from 
pain. Thy sister is restored to us, and there is her 
deliverer : to that brave man it is that I am indebted 
for yet having a daughter ; give him, my boy, the 
hand of friendship, he deserves our warmest grati- 
tude." 

My son seemed all this while regardless of what I 
said, and still continued fixed at respectful distance. 
" My dear brother," cried his sister, " why don't you 
thank my good deliverer ? the brave should ever love 
each other." 

He still continued his silence and astonishment, till 
our guest at last perceived himself to be known, and, 
assuming all his native dignity, desired my son to 
come forward. Never before had I seen anything 
so truly majestic as the air he assumed upon this 
occasion. The greatest object in the universe, says 
a certain philosopher, is a good man struggling with 
adversity; yet there is still a greater, which is the 
good man that comes to relieve it. After he had 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 231 

regarded my son for some time with a- superior air, 
" I again find," said he, " unthinking boy, that the 
same crime " — But here he was interrupted by one 
of tlie jailer's servants, who came to inform us that 
a person of distinction, who had driven into town 
with a chariot and several attendants, sent his respects 
to the gentleman that was with us, and begged to 
know when he should think proper to be waited 
upon. " Bid the fellow wait," cried our guest, " till 
I shall have leisure to receive him ; " and then turn- 
ing to my son, " I again find, sir," proceeded he, " that 
you are guilty of the same offence, for which you once 
had my reproof, and for which the law is now prepar- 
ing its justest pvmishments. You imagine, perhaps, 
that a contempt for your own life gives you a right 
to take that of another : but where, sir, is the differ- 
ence between a duellist who hazards a life of no 
value, and the murderer who acts with greater secu- 
rity ? Is it any diminution of the gamester's fraud, 
when he alleges that he has staked a counter ? " 

" Alas, sir," cried I, " whoever you are, pity the 
poor misguided creature ; for what he has done was 
in obedience to a deluded mother, who, in the bitter- 
ness of her resentment, required him, upon her bless- 
ing, to avenge her quarrel. Here, sir, is the letter, 
which will serve to convince you of her imprudence, 
and diminish his guilt." 

He took the letter and hastily read it over. " This," 
says he, " though not a perfect excuse, is such a palli- 
ation of his fault as induces me to forgive him. And 



232 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

now, sir," continued he, kindly taking my son by the 
hand, " I see you are suqjrised at finding me here ; 
but I have often visited prisons upon occasions less 
interesting. I am now come to see justice done a 
worthy man, for whom I have the most sincere 
esteem. I have long been a disguised spectator of thy 
father's benevolence. T have at his little dwelling 
enjoyed respect uncontaminated by flattery ; and have 
received that happiness that courts could not give, 
from the amusing simplicity round his fireside. My 
nephew has been apprised of my intentions in coming 
here, and I find is arrived. It would be wronging 
him and you to condemn him without examination ; 
if there be injury, there shall be redress ; and this I 
may say without boasting, that none have ever taxed 
the injustice of Sir William ThornhilL" 

We now found the personage whom we had so long 
entertained as a harmless amusing companion, was no 
other than the celebrated Sir William Thornhill, to 
whose virtues and singularities scarcely any were 
strangers. The poor Mr. Burchell was in reality a 
man of large fortune and great interest, to whom 
senates listened with apjDlause, and whom party heard 
with conviction ; who was the friend of his country, 
but loyal to his king. My poor wdfe, recollecting her 
former familiarity, seemed to shrink with apprehen- 
sion ; but Sophia, who a few moments before thought 
him her own, now perceiving the immense distance 
to which he was removed by fortune, was unable to 
conceal her tears. 



VICAE OF WAKEFIELD. 233 

"Ah, sir," cried my wife with a piteous aspect, 
" how is it possible that I can ever liave your for- 
giveness ? The slights you received from me the last 
time I had the honor of seeing you at our house, and 
the jokes which I audaciously threw out — these 
jokes, sir, I fear, can never be forgiven." 

" My dear good lady," returned he with a smile, 
"if you had your joke, I had my answer: I'll leave 
it to all the company if mine were not as good as 
yours. To say the truth, I know nobody whom I 
am disposed to be angry with at present, but the 
fellow who so frighted my little girl here. I had not 
even time to examine the rascal's person so as to 
describe him in an advertisement. Can you tell me, 
Sophia, my dear, whether you should know him 
again ? " 

" Indeed, sir," replied she, " I can't be positive ; 
yet now I recollect he had a large mark over one 
of his eyebrows." " I ask pardon, madam," inter- 
rupted Jenkinson, who was by, " but be so good as 
to inform me if the fellow wore his own red hair ? " 
" Yes, I think so," cried Sophia. " And did your 
honor," continued he, turning to Sir V/illiam, " ob- 
serve the length of his legs ? " "I can't be sure of 
their length," cried the Baronet, " but I am convinced 
of their swiftness ; for he outran me, which is what I 
thought few men in the kingdom could have done." 
" Please your honor," cried Jenkinson, " I know the 
man : it is certainly the same ; the best runner in 
England ; he has beaten Pinwire of Newcastle ; Tim- 



284 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

othy Baxter is his name. I know him perfectly, and 
the very place of his retreat this moment. If your 
Honor will bid Mr. Jailer let two of his men go 
with me, I '11 engage to produce him to you in an 
hour at farthest." Upon this the jailer was called, 
who instantly appearing. Sir William demanded if he 
knew him. " Yes, please your honor," replied the 
jailer, "I know Sir William Thornhill well, and 
everybody that knows anything of him will desire to 
know more of him." '' Well, then," said the Baronet, 
" my request is that you will permit this man and 
two of your servants to go upon a message by my au- 
thority ; and as I am in the commission of the peace, 
I undertake to secure you." " Your promise is suffi- 
cient," replied the other, " and you may at a moment's 
warning send them over England whenever your 
honor thinks fit." 

In pursuance of the jailer's compliance, Jenkinson 
was dispatched in search of Timothy Baxter, while 
we were amused with the assiduity of our youngest 
boy Bill, who had just come in and climbed up Sir 
William's neck in order to kiss him. His mother 
was immediately going to chastise his familiarity, but 
the worthy man prevented her ; and taking the child, 
all ragged as he was, upon his knee, " What, Bill, you 
chubby rogue," cried he, '' do you remember your old 
friend Burchell ? and Dick too, my honest veteran, 
are you here ? you shall find I have not forgot you." 
So saying, he gave each a large piece of gingerbread, 
which the poor fellows eat very heartily, as they had 
got that morning but a very scanty breakfast. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 235 

We now sate down to dinner, which was almost 
cold ; but previously, my arm still continuing painful, 
Sir William wrote a prescription, for he had made 
the study of physic his amusement, and was more 
than moderately skilled in the profession : this being 
sent to an apothecary who lived in the place, my arm 
was dressed, and I found almost instantaneous relief. 
We were waited upon at dinner by the jailer him- 
self, who was willing to do our guest all the honor in 
his power. But before we had well dined, another 
message was brought from his nephew, desiring per- 
mission to appear in order to vindicate his innocence 
and honor ; with which request the Baronet complied, 
and desired Mr. Thornhill to be introduced. 





CHAPTER XXXI. 

FORMER BENEVOLENCE NOAV REPAID WITH UNEX- 
PECTED INTEREST. 

Mr. Thornhill made his appearance with a 
smile, which he seldom wanted, and was going to em- 
brace his uncle, which the other repulsed with an air 
of disdain. " No fawning, sir, at present," cried the 
Baronet, with a look of severity ; " the only way to 
my heart is by the road of honor ; but here I only 
see complicated instances of falsehood, cowardice, and 
oppression. How is it, sir, that this poor man, for 
whom I know you professed a friendship, is used thus 
hardly? His daughter vilely seduced as a recom- 
pense for his hospitality, and he himself thrown into 
prison, perhaps but for resenting the insult? His 
son, too, whom you feared to face as a man " — 

" Is it possible, sir," interrupted his nephew, " that 
my uncle could object that as a crime, which his 
repeated instructions alone have persuaded me to 
avoid ? " 

" Your rebuke," cried Sir William, " is just ; you 
have acted in this instance prudently and well, though 
not quite as your father would have done : my 
brother, indeed, was the soul of honor ; but thou — 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 237 

Yes, jou liave acted, in this instance, perfectly right, 
and it has my warmest apjDrobation." 

'' And I hope," said his nephew, " that the rest of 
my conduct will not be found to deserve censure. I 
appeared, sir, with this gentleman's daughter at some 
places of public amusement: thus, what was levity, 
scandal called by a harsher name, and it was reported 
that I had debauched her. I waited on her father in 
person, willing to clear the thing to his satisfaction, 
and he received me only with insult and abuse. As 
for the rest with regard to his being here, my attor- 
ney and steward can best inform you, as I commit 
the management of business entirely to them. If he 
has contracted debts, and is unwilling, or even unable 
to pay them, it is their business to proceed in this 
manner ; and I see no hardship or injustice in pursu- 
ing the most legal means of redress." 

" If this," cried Sir William, " be as you have stated 
it, there is nothing unpardonable in your offence ; and 
though your conduct might have been more generous 
in not suffering this gentleman to be oppressed by 
subordinate tyranny, yet it has been at least equita- 
ble." 

" He cannot contradict a single particular," replied 
the Squire ; " I defy him to do so ; and several of my 
servants are ready to attest what I say. Thus, sir," 
continued he, finding that I was silent, for in fact I 
could not contradict him ; " thus, sir, my own inno- 
cence is vindicated ; but though at your entreaty, I 
am ready to forgive this gentleman every other of- 



238 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

fence, yet bis attempts to lessen me in your esteem, 
excite a resentment that I cannot govern ; and this, 
too, at a time when his son was actually preparing to 
take away my life ; this, I say, was such guilt, that 
I am determined to let the law take its course. I 
have here the challenge that was sent me, and two 
witnesses to prove it : one of my servants has been 
wounded dangerously : and even though my uncle 
himself should dissuade me, whicli I know he will 
not, yef I will see public justice done, and he shall 
» suffer for it." 

" Thou monster," cried my wife, " hast thou not 
had vengeance enough already, but must my poor 
boy feel thy cruelty? I hope that good Sir William 
will protect us ; for my son is as innocent as a child : 
I am sure he is, and never did harm to man." 

" Madam," replied the good man, " your wishes for 
his safety are not greater than mine ; but I am sorry 
to find his guilt too plain ; and if my nephew per- 
sists " — But the appearance of Jenkiuson and the 
jailer's two servants now called off our attention, 
who entered, hauling in a tall man, very genteelly 
dressed, and answering the description already given 
of the rufRan who had carried off my daughter : 
" Here," cried Jenkinson, pulling him in, " here we 
have him ; and if ever there was a candidate for Ty- 
burn, this is one." 

The moment Mr. Thornhill perceived the prisoner, 
and Jenkinson who had him in custody, he seemed 
to shrink back with terror. His face became pale 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 239 

with conscious guilt, and he would have withdrawn ; 
but Jenkinson, who perceived his design, stopt him. 
" What, Squire," cried he, " are you ashamed of your 
two old acquaintances, Jenkinson and Baxter ? but 
this is the way that all great men forget their friends, 
though I am resolved we will not forget you. Our 
prisoner, please your honor," continued he, turning 
to Sir William, " has already confessed all. This is 
the gentleman reported to be so dangerously wounded. 
He declares that it was Mr. Thornhill who first put 
him upon this affair ; that he gave him the clothes he 
now wears, to appear like a gentleman ; and furnished 
him with the post-chaise. The plan was laid between 
them, that he should carry off the young lady to a 
place of safety, and that there he should threaten and 
terrify her ; but Mr. Thornhill was to come in, in the 
mean time, as if by accident, to her rescue ; and that 
they should fight a while, and then he was to run 
off, — by which Mr. Thornhill would have the better 
opportunity of gaining her affections himself, under 
the character of her defender." 

Sir William remembered the coat to have been 
worn by his nephew, and all the rest the prisoner 
himself confirmed by a more circumstantial account ; 
concluding, that Mr. Thornhill had often declared to 
him that he was in love with both sisters at the same 
time. 

" Heavens ! " cried Sir William, " what a viper have 
I been fostering in my bosom ! And so fond of pub- 
lic justice, too, as he seemed to be ! But he shall 



240 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

have it ! secure him, Mr. Jailer ! — yet, hold ; I fear 
there is not legal evidence to detain him." 

Upon this Mr. Thornhill, with the utmost humility, 
entreated that two such abandoned wretches might 
not be admitted as evidences against him, but that 
his servants should be examined. "• Your servants ! " 
replied Sir William ; " wretch ! call them yours no 
longer ; but come, let us hear what those fellows 
have to say ; let his butler be called." 

When the butler was introduced, he soon perceived 
by his former master's looks that all his power was 
now over. " Tell me," cried Sir William, sternly, 
" have you ever seen your master, and that fellow 
dressed up in his clothes, in company together ? " 
" Yes, please your honor," cried the butler ; " a thou- 
sand times : he was the man that always brought him 
his ladies." " How," interrupted young Mr. Thorn- 
hill, " this to my face ! " " Yes," replied the butler, 
" or to any man's face. To tell you a truth. Master 
Thornhill, I never either loved or liked you, and I 
don't care if I tell you now a piece of my mind." 
"Now then," cried Jenkinson, " tell his honor whether 
you know anything of me." " I can't say," replied the 
butler, " that I know much good of you. The night 
that gentleman 's daughter was deluded to our house, 
you were one of them." " So then," cried Sir Wil- 
liam, " I find you have brought a very fine witness to 
prove your innocence thou stain to humanity ! to as- 
sociate with such wretches ! But," continuing his ex- 
amination, "you tell me, Mr. Butler, that this was 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 241 

the person who brought him this old gentleman's 
daughter." "No, please your honor," replied the 
butler, " he did not bring her, for the Squire, himself, 
undertook that business ; but he brought the priest 
that pretended to marry them." " It is but too 
true," cried Jenkinson, " I cannot deny it ; that was 
the employment assigned to me, and I confess it to 
my confusion." 

" Good heavens ! " exclaimed the Baronet, " how 
every new discovery of his villainy alarms me ! All 
his guilt is now too plain, and I find his prosecution 
was dictated by tyranny, cowardice, and revenge. At 
my request, Mr. Jailer, set this young officer, now 
your prisoner, free, and trust to me for the conse- 
quences. I'll make it my business to set the affair 
in a proper light to my friend the magistrate, who 
has committed him. But where is the unfortunate 
young lady herself? Let her appear to confront this 
wretch : I long to know by what arts he has seduced 
her. Entreat her to come in. Where is she ? " 

" Ah, sir," said I, " that question stings me to 
the heart : I was once indeed happy in a daughter, 
but her miseries " — Another interruption here pre- 
vented me ; for who should make her appearance but 
Miss Arabella Wilmot, who was next day to have 
been married to Mr. Thornhill? Nothing could 
equal her surprise at seeing Sir William and his 
nephew here before her ; for her arrival was quite 
accidental. It happened that she and the old gentle- 
man, her father, were passing through the town on 
16 



242 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

their way to her aunt's, who had insisted that her 
nuptials with Mr. Thornhill should be consummated 
at her house ; but stopping for refreshment, they put 
up at an inn at the other end of the town. It was 
there, from the window, that the young lady happened 
to observe one of my little boys playing in the street, 
and instantly sending a footman to bring the child to 
her, she learnt from him some account of our misfor- 
tunes ; but was still kept ignorant of young Mr. 
Thornhiirs being the cause. Though her father 
made several remonstrances on the impropriety of 
going to a prison to visit us, yet they were inef- 
fectual ; she desired the child to conduct her, which 
he did, and it was thus she surprised us at a juncture 
so unexpected. 

Nor can T go on without a reflection on those ac- 
cidental meetings, which, though they happen every 
day, seldom excite our surprise but upon some ex- 
traordinary occasion. To what a fortuitous concur- 
rence do we not owe every pleasure and convenience 
of our lives ! How many seeming accidents must 
unite before we can be clothed or fed ! The peasant 
must be disposed to labor, the shower must fall, the 
wind fill the merchant's sail, or numbers must want 
the usual supply. 

We all continued silent for some moments, while 
my charming pupil, which was the name T generally 
gave this young lady, united in her looks compassion 
and astonishment, which gave new fiuishings to her 
beauty. '• Indeed, my dear Mr. Thornhill," cried she 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 243 

to tlie Squire, who she supposed was come here to suc- 
cor, and not to oppress us, " I take it a little unkindly 
that you should come here without me, or never in- 
form me of the situation of a family so dear to us 
both : you know I should take as much pleasure in 
contributing to the relief of my reverend old master 
here, whom I shall ever esteem, as you can. But I 
find that, like your uncle, you take a pleasure in do- 
ing good in secret." 

" He find pleasure in doing good ! " cried Sir Wil- 
liam, interrupting her. " No, my dear, his pleasures 
are as base as he is. You see in. him, madam, as 
complete a villain as ever disgraced humanity. A 
wretch, who, after having deluded this poor man 's 
daughter, after plotting against the innocence of her 
sister, has thrown the father into prison, and the eld- 
est son into fetters, because he had the courage to face 
her betrayer. And give me leave, madam, now to 
congratulate you upon an escape from the embraces 
of such a monster." 

" goodness," cried the lovely girl, " how have I 
been deceived ! Mr. Thornhill informed me for cer- 
tain, that this gentleman's eldest son, Captain Prim- 
rose, was gone off to America with his new-married 
lady." 

" My sweet miss," cried my wife, " he has told you 
nothing but falsehoods. My son George never left 
the kingdom, nor ever was married. Though you 
have forsaken him, he has always loved you too well 
to think of anybody else ; and I have heard him say 



244 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

he would die a bachelor for your sake/' She then 
proceeded to expatiate upon the sincerity of her son's 
passion. She set his duel with Mr. Thornhill in a 
proper light ; from thence she made a rapid digression 
to the Squire's debaucheries, his pretended marriages, 
and ended with a most insulting picture of his cow- 
ardice. 

" Good Heaven ! " cried Miss Wilmot, " how very 
near have I been to the brink of ruin ! Ten thou- 
sand falsehoods has this gentleman told me. He had 
at last art enough to persuade me that my promise to 
the only man I esteemed was no longer binding, since 
he had been unfoithful. By his falsehoods I was 
taught to detest one equally brave and generous." 

By this time my son was freed from the incum- 
brances of justice, as the person supposed to be 
wounded was detected to be an impostor. Mr. Jen- 
kinson also, who had acted as his valet de chambre, 
had dressed up his hair, and furnished him with what- 
ev^er was necessary to make a genteel appearance. 
He now, therefore, entered handsomely dressed in his 
regimentals ; and without vanity (for I am above it), 
he appeared as handsome a fellow as ever wore a 
military dress. As he entered, he made Miss Wil- 
mot a modest and distant bow, for he was not as yet 
acquainted with the change which the eloquence of 
his mother had wrought in his favor. But no deco- 
rums could restrain the impatience of his blushing 
mistress to be forgiven. Her tears, her looks, all 
contributed to discover the real sensations of her 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 245 

heart, for having forgotten her former promise, and 
having suffered herself to be deluded by an impostor. 
My son appeared amazed at her condescension, and 
<)ould scarcely believe it real. " Sure, mad^m," cried 
he, " this is but delusipn! I can never have merited 
this ? To be blessed thus, is to be too happy." " No, 
sir," replied she ; " I have been deceived, basely de- 
ceived, else nothing could have ever made me unjust 
to my promise. You know my friendship, you have 
long known it ; but forget what I have done, and as 
you once had my warmest vows of constancy, you 
shall now have them repeated ; and be assured, that if 
your Arabella cannot be yours, she shall never be 
another's." " And no other's you shall be," cried Sir 
William, " if I have any influence with your father." 
This hint was sufficient for my son Moses, who im- 
mediately flew to the inn where the old gentleman 
was, to inform him of every circumstance that had hap- 
pened. But in the mean time the Squire, perceiving 
that he was on every side undone, now finding that 
no hopes were left from flattery or dissimulation, con- 
cluded that his wisest way would be to turn and face 
his pursuers. Thus, laying aside all shame, he ap- 
peared the open hardy villain. " I find then," cried 
he, " that I am to expect no justice here ; but I am 
resolved it shall be done me. You shall know, sir," 
turning to Sir William, " I am no longer a poor de- 
pendent upon your favors ; I scorn them. Nothing 
can keep Miss Wilmot's fortune from me, which, I 
thank her father's assiduity, is pretty large. The 



246 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

articles and a bond for her fortune are signed, and 
safe in my possession. It was her fortune, not her 
person, that induced me to wish for this match ; and 
possessed of the one, let who will take the other. 

This was an alarming blow. Sir William was sen- 
sible of the justice of his claims, for he had been in- 
strumental in drawing up the marriage articles him- 
self. Miss Wilmot, therefore, perceiving that her 
fortune was irretrievably lost, turning to my son, she 
asked if the loss of fortune could lesson her value to 
him ? " Though fortune," said she, " is out of my 
power at least I have my hand to give." 

" And that, madam," cried her real lover, " was 
indeed all that you ever had to give ; at least all that 
I ever thought worth the acceptance. And I now 
protest, my Arabella, by all that 's happy, your want 
of fortune this moment increases my pleasure, as it 
serves to convince my sweet girl of my sincerity." 

Mr. "Wilmot now entering, he seemed not a little 
pleased at the danger his daughter had just escaped, 
and readily consented to a dissolution of the match. 
But finding that her fortune, which was secured to 
Mr. Thornhill by bond, would not be given up, noth- 
ing could exceed his disappointment. He now saw 
that his money must all go to enrich one who had no 
fortune of his own. He could bear his being a rascal, 
but to want an equivalent to his daughter's fortune 
was wormwood. He sat therefore for some minutes 
employed in the most mortifying speculations, till 
Sir William attempted to lessen his anxiety. "I 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 247 

must confess, sir," cried he, " that your present dis- 
appointment does not entirely displease me. Your 
immoderate passion for wealth is now justly pun- 
ished. But though the young lady cannot be rich, 
she has still a competence sufficient to give content. 
Here you see an honest young soldier, who is willing 
to take her without fortune : they have long loved 
each other ; and for the friendship I bear his father, 
my interest shall not be wanting in his promotion. 
Leave, then, that ambition which disappoints you, and 
for once admit that happiness which courts your ac- 
ceptance." 

" Sir William," replied the old gentleman, " be 
assured I never yet forced her inclinations, nor will I 
now. If she still continues to love this young gen- 
tleman, let her have him with all my fieart. There 
is still, thank Heaven, some fortune left, and your 
promise will make it something more. Only let my 
old friend here (meaning me) give me a promise of 
settling six thousand pounds upon my girl, if ever he 
should come to his fortune, and I am ready this night 
to be the first to join them together." 

As it now remained with me to make the young 
couple happy, I readily gave a promise of making 
the settlement he required, which to one who had 
such little expectations as I, was no great favor. We 
had now therefore the satisfaction of seeing them fly 
into each other's arms in transport. " After all my 
misfortunes," cried my son George, "' to be thus re- 
warded ! Sure this is more than I could ever have 



248 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

presumed to hope for. To be possessed of all that 's 
good, and after such an interval of pain ! My warm- 
est wishes could never rise so high ! " 

" Yes, my George," returned his lovely bride, 
" now let the wretch take my fortune ; since you are 
happy without it, so am I. O what an exchange 
have I made from the basest of men to the dearest, 
best ! Let him enjoy our fortune, I now can be 
happy even in indigence." " And I promise you," 
cried the Squire, with a malicious grin, " that I shall 
be very happy with what you despise." " Hold, hold, 
sir," cried Jenkinson, " there are two words to that 
bargain. As for that lady's fortune, sir, you shall 
never touch a single stiver of it. Pray, your honor," 
continued he to Sir William, "can the Squire have 
this lady's fortune if he be married to another?" 
"Flow can you make such a simple demand?" re- 
plied the Baronet : " undoubtedly he cannot." " I 
am sorry for that," cried Jenkinson ; " for as this 
gentleman and I have been old fellow-sporters, I have 
a friendship for him. But I must declare, well as I 
love him, that this contract is not worth a tobacco- 
stopper, for he is married already." " You lie, like a 
rascal," returned the Squire, who seemed roused by 
this insult ; " I never was legally married to any 
woman." 

" Indeed, begging you honor's pardon," replied the 
other, " you were ; and I hope you will show a 
proper return of friendship to your own honest Jenk- 
inson, who brings you a wife ; and if the company 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 249 

restrain their curiosity a few minutes, they shall see 
her." So saying, he went off with his usual celerity, 
and left us all unable to form any probable conjec- 
ture as to his design. " Ay, let him go," cried the 
Squire ; " whatever else I may have done, I defy him 
there. I am too old now to be frightened with 
squibs." 

"I am surprised," said the Baronet, "what the 
fellow can intend by this. Some low piece of humor, 
I suppose." "Perhaps, sir," replied I, "he may 
have a more serious meaning. For when we reflect 
on the various schemes this gentleman has laid to 
seduce innocence, perhaps some one, more artful than 
the rest, has been found able to deceive him. When 
we consider what numbers he has ruined, how many 
parents now feel with anguish the infamy and the 
contamination which he has brought into their fami- 
lies, it would not surprise me if some one of them — 
Amazement ! Do I see my lost daughter ? do I hold 
her ? It is, it is my life, my happiness. I thought 
thee lost, my Olivia, yet still I hold thee — and still 
thou shalt live to bless me." The warmest transports 
of the fondest lover were not greater than mine, 
when I saw him introduce my child, and held my 
daughter in my arms, whose silence only spoke her 
raptures. 

" And art thou returned to me, my darling," cried 
I, " to be my comfort in age ! " " That she is," cried 
Jenkinson ; " and make much of her, for she is your 
own honorable child, and as honest a woman as any 



250 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

in the whole room, let the other be who she will. 
And as for you, Squire, as sure as you stand there, 
this young lady is your lawful wedded wife. And to 
convince you that I sj^eak nothing but truth, here is 
the license by which you were married together." 
So saying, he put the license into the Baronet's hands, 
who read it, and found it perfect in every respect. 
" And now, gentlemen," continued he, " I find you 
are surprised at all this ; but a few words will explain 
the difficulty. That there Squire of renown, for whom 
I have a great friendship (but that's between our- 
selves), has often employed me in doing odd little 
things for him. Among the rest, he commissioned 
me to procure him a false license and a false priest, 
in order to deceive this young lady. But as I was 
very much his friend, what did I do, but went and 
got a true license and a true priest, and married them 
both as fast as the cloth could make them. Perhaps 
you '11 think it was generosity that made me do all 
this. But no : to my shame I confess it, my only 
design was to keep the license, and let the Squire 
know that I could prove it upon him whenever I 
thought proper, and so make him come down when- 
ever I wanted money." A burst of pleasure now 
seemed to fill the whole apartment ; our joy reached 
even to the common room, where the prisoners them- 
selves sympathized. 

And shook their chains 

In transport and rude harmony. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 251 

Happiness was expanded upon every face, and even 
Olivia's cheek seemed flushed with pleasure. To be 
thus restored to reputation, to friends and fortune at 
once, was a rapture sufficient to stop the progress of 
decay, and restore former health and vivacity. But 
perhaps among all, there was not one who felt sincerer 
pleasure than I. Still holding the dear loved child in 
my arms, I asked my heart if these transports were 
not delusion. " How could you," cried I, turning to 
Mr. Jenkinson, " how could you add to my miseries 
by the story of her death ? But it matters not : my 
pleasure at finding her again is more than a recom- 
pense for the pain." 

'•As to your question," replied Jenkinson, " that is 
easily answered. I thought the only probable means 
of freeing you from prison, was by submitting to the 
Squire, and consenting to his marriage with the other 
young lady. But these you had vowed never to 
grant while your daughter was living; there was 
therefore no other method to bring things to bear, but 
by persuading you that she was dead. I prevailed on 
your wife to join in the deceit, and we have not had a 
fit opportunity of undeceiving you till now." 

In the whole assembly there now appeared only 
two faces that did not glow with transport. Mr. 
Thornhill's assurance had entirely forsaken him ; he 
now saw the gulf of infamy and want before him, and 
trembled to take the plunge. He therefore fell on 
his knees, before his uncle, and in a voice of piercing 
misery implored compassion. Sir William was going 



252 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

to spurn him away, but at my request he raised him, 
and after pausing a few moments, " Thy vices, crimes, 
and ingratitude," cried he, " deserve no tenderness ; 
yet thou shalt not be entirely forsaken — a bare 
competence shall be supplied to support the wants of 
life, but not its follies. This young lady, thy wife, 
shall be put in possession of a third part of that for- 
tune which once was thine, and from her tenderness 
alone thou art to expect any extraordinary supplies 
for the future." He was going to express his grati- 
tude for such kindness in a set speech ; but the Bar- 
onet prevented him, by bidding him not to aggravate 
his meanness, which was already but too apparent. 
He ordered him at the time to be gone, and from all 
his former domestics to choose one, such as he should 
think proper, which was all that should be granted to 
attend him. 

As soon as he left us Sir William very politely 
stepped up to his new niece with a smile, and wished 
her joy. His example was followed by Miss Wilmot 
and her father. My wife too kissed her daughter 
with much affection ; as, to use her own expression, 
she was now made an honest woman of. Sophia and 
Moses followed in turn, and even our benefactor 
Jenkinson desired to be admitted to that honor. Our 
satisfaction seemed scarcely capable of increase. Sir 
William, whose greatest pleasure was in doing good, 
now looked round with a countenance open as the 
sun, and saw nothing but joy in the looks of all, ex- 
cept that of my daughter Sophia, who, for some rea- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 253 

sons we could not comprehend, did not seem perfectly 
satisfied. "I think now," cried he, with a smile, 
" that all the company except one or two seem per- 
fectly happy. There only remains an act of justice 
for me to do. You are sensible, sir," continued he, 
turning to me, " of the obligations we both owe Mr. 
Jenkinson, and it is but just that we should both re- 
ward him for it. Miss Sophia will, I am sure, make 
him very happy, and he shall have from me five hun- 
dred pounds as her fortune : and upon this I am sure 
they can live very comfortably together. Come, 
Miss Sophia, what say you to this match of my mak- 
ing? Will you have him?" My poor girl seemed al- 
most sinking into her mother's arms at the hideous 
proposal. " Have him, sir ! " cried she faintly : "no, 
sir, never." " What ! " cried he again, "not have Mr. 
Jenkinson your benefactor, a handsome young fellow, 
with five hundred pounds, and good expectations ? " 
" I beg, sir," returned she, scarcely able to speak, 
" that you '11 desist, and not make me so very 
wretched." " Was ever such obstinacy known ? " 
cried he again, " to refuse a man whom the family 
has such infinite obligations to, who has preserved 
your sister, and who has five hundred pounds ! What, 
not have him ! " " No, sir, never," replied she angrily ; 
" I 'd sooner die first." " If that be the case then," 
cried he, " if you will not have him — I think I must 
have you myself." And so saying, he caught her to 
his breast with ardor. " My loveliest, my most sen- 
sible of girls," cried he, " how could you ever think 



254 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

your own Burchell could deceive you, or that Sir 
William Thornhill could ever cease to admire a mis- 
tress that loved him for himself alone ? I have for 
some years sought for a woman, who, a stranger to 
my fortune, could think that I had merit as a man. 
After having tried in vain, even amongst the pert 
and the ugly, how great at last must be my rapture 
to have made a conquest over such sense and such 
heavenly beauty ! " 

Then turning to Jenkinson : " As I cannot, sir, 
part with this young lady myself, for she has taken a 
fancy to the cut of my face, all the recompense I can 
make is to give you her fortune ; and you may call 
upon my steward to-morrow for five hundred 23ounds." 
Thus we had all our compliments to repeat, and Lady 
Thornhill underwent the same round of ceremony 
that her sister had done before. In the mean time, 
Sir William's gentleman appeared to tell us that the 
equipages were ready to carry us to the inn, where 
everything was prepared for our reception. My wife 
and I led the van, and left those gloomy mansions of 
sorrow. The generous Baronet ordered forty pounds 
to be distributed among the prisoners, and Mr. Wil- 
mot, induced by his example, gave half that sum. 
We were received below by the shouts of the villa- 
gers, and I saw and shook by the hand two or three of 
my honest parishioners, who were among the number. 
They attended us to our inn, where a sumptuous en- 
tertainment was provided, and coarser provisions were 
distributed in great quantities among the populace. 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 255 

After supper, as my spirits were exhausted by the 
alternation of pleasure and pain which they had sus- 
tained during the day, I asked permission to with- 
draw ; and leaving the company in the midst of their 
mirth, as soon as I found myself alone, I poured out 
my heart in gratitude to the Giver of joy as well as 
of sorrow, and then slept undisturbed till morning. 





CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE CONCLUSION. 

The next morning, as soon as I awaked, I found 
my eldest son sitting by my bedside who came to 
increase my joy with another turn of fortune in my 
favor. First having released me from the settlement 
that I had made the day before in his favor, he let 
me know that my merchant, who had failed in town, 
was arrested at Antwerp, and there had given up 
effects to a much greater amount than what was due 
to his creditors. My boy's generosity pleased me al- 
most as much as this unlooked-for good fortune ; but 
I had some doubts whether I ought in justice to ac- 
cept his offer. "While I was pondering upon this, Sir 
William entered my room, to whom I communicated 
my doubts. His opinion was, that as my son was 
already j)ossessed of a very affluent fortune by his 
marriage, I might accej^t his offer without any hesita- 
tion. His business, however, was to inform me that 
he had the night before sent for the licenses, and ex- 
pected them every hour, and he hoped I would not 
refuse my assistance in making all the company 
happy that morning. A footman entered while we 
were speaking, to tell us that the messenger was re- 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 257 

turned; and as I was by this time ready, I went down, 
where I found the whole company as merry as afflu- 
ence and innocence could make them. However, as 
they were now preparing for a very solemn ceremony, 
their laughter entirely displeased me. I told them of 
the grave, becoming, and sublime deportment they 
should assume upon this mystical occasion, and read 
them two homilies, and a thesis of my own composing, 
in order to prepare them. Yet they still seemed per- 
fectly refractory and ungovernable. Even as we were 
going along to church, to which I led the way, all 
gravity had quite forsaken them, and I was often 
tempted to turn back in indignation. In church a 
new dilemma arose, which promised no easy solution. 
This was, which couple should be married first. My 
son's bride warmly insisted that Lady Thornhill (that 
was to be) should take" the lead ; but this the other 
refused with equal ardor, protesting she would not be 
guilty of such rudeness for the world. The argument 
was supported for some time between both with equal 
obstinacy and good breeding. But as I stood all this 
time with my book ready, I was at last quite tired of 
the contest ; and shutting it, " I perceive," cried I, 
" that none of you have a mind to be married, and I 
think we had as good go back again ; for I suppose 
there will be no business done here to-day." This 
at once reduced them to reason. The Baronet and 
his lady were first married, and then my son and his 
lovely partner. 

I had previously that morning given orders that a 
17 



258 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

coach should be sent for my honest neighbor Flambo- 
rough and his family ; by which means, upon our re- 
turn to the inn, we had the pleasure of finding the 
two Miss Flamboroughs alighted before us. Mr. 
Jenkinson gave his hand to the eldest, and my son 
Moses led up the other (and I have since found that 
he has taken a real liking to the girl, and my consent 
and bounty he shall have, whenever he thinks proper 
to demand them). We were no sooner returned to 
the inn, but numbers of my parishioners, hearing of 
my success, came to congratulate me ; but among the 
rest were those who rose to rescue me, and whom I 
formerly rebuked with such sharpness. I told the 
story to Sir William, my son-in-law, who went out 
and reproved them with great severity, but finding 
them quite disheartened by his harsh reproof, he gave 
them half a guinea a piece to drink his health, and 
raise their dejected spirits. 

Soon after this we were called to a very genteel 
entertainment, which was dressed by Mr. Thornhill's 
cook. And it may not be improper to observe, with 
respect to that gentleman, that he now resides, in 
quality of companion, at a relation's house, being very 
well liked, and seldom sitting at the side-table, except 
when there is no room at the other ; for they make 
no stranger of him. His time is pretty much taken 
up in keeping his relation, who is a little melancholy, 
in spirits, and in learning to blow the French horn. 
My eldest daughter, however, still remembers him 
with regret; and she has even told me, though I 



VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 259 

make a great secret of it, that when he reforms she 
may be brought to relent. But to return, for I am 
not apt to digress thus ; when we were to sit down to 
dinner our ceremonies were going to be renewed. 
The question was, whether my eldest daughter, as be- 
ing a matron, should not sit above the two young 
brides; but the debate was cut short by my son 
George, who proposed that the company should sit 
indiscriminately, every gentleman by his lady. This 
was received with great approbation by all, excepting 
my wife, who, I could perceive, was not perfectly sat- 
isfied, as she expected to have had the pleasure of 
sitting at the head of the table, and carving all the 
meat for all the company. But, notwithstanding this, 
it is impossible to describe our good humor. I can't 
say whether we had more wit among us now than 
usual ; but I am certain we had more laughing, which 
answered the end as well. One jest I particularly 
remember : old Mr. Wilmot drinking to Moses, whose 
head was turned another way, my son replied, 
" Madam, I thank you." Upon which the old gen- 
tleman, winking upon the rest of the company, ob- 
served, that he was thinking of his mistress ; at which 
jest I thought the two Miss Flamboroughs would have 
died with laughing. As soon as dinner was over, ac- 
cording to my old custom, I requested that the table 
might be taken away, to have the pleasure of seeing 
all my family assembled once more by a cheerful fire- 
side. My two little ones sat upon each knee, the rest 
of the company by their partners. I had nothing 



260 VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. 

now on this side of the grave to wish for ; all my 
cares were oyer ; my pleasure was unspeakable. It 
now only remained, that my gratitude in good for- 
tune should exceed my former submission in adver- 
sity. 




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